


Friends (With Benefits)

by DreamofInception



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Campus Setting, Drama, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Humor, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5369210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamofInception/pseuds/DreamofInception
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake hate each other. But they like each other naked. (The 100 modern AU).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Ooooooookay. So to be completely honest, I have lost a lot of interest in writing Nowhere Found for the moment, mostly because many crazy things have been happening in my life, and I want to currently write a story with more humour and happiness. I have major writer's block with Nowhere Found right now, so I'm not saying I'll never finish it, I'm just saying that right now I just can't focus on it and make it a priority.
> 
> So, as for that explanation, may I introduce to you my new Bellamy/Clarke story - Friends (With Benefits). This story will be centred around Bellamy (a frat boy) and Clarke (a sorority sister), and, well, the rest you'll just have to find out.
> 
> Enjoy the prologue, and tell me what you think :)

**Friends (With Benefits)**

**prologue**

Three damn years. That's how long it took for her to realize that Finn Collins was a soul-suffocating bastard.

_Three. Damn. Years._

This stupid, idiotic man had her fooled for three years. Had her fooled even when Justin Bieber was the biggest celebrity in the world, and he told her his career was going to end soon. Had her fooled when he told her sushi was good, and she spent the rest of their night throwing up in a downtown restaurant's single washroom.

Soul-suffocating _bastard_.

Of three years. That means he was a soul-suffocating bastard when they met each other during senior year of high school, and when he asked her out behind the ice cream shack in their hometown. He was even a pathological liar when he told her he loved her, and that he wanted her, needed her -

Blah, blah, fucking blah.

"Clarke?"

She looks up at him, her fingers digging into the metal of her fork. Everything feels hot, and red, like the whole God damn world is falling apart. Her dress is itchy and her hair feels loose in its curls, even the rage interfering with her appearance.

She forces a smile, icy and mean. "What did you just say?"

Finn bites on his bottom lip. And she used to think that was fucking cute. He places his napkin on the table and pushes the cake from his view, the cake she ordered that says _Happy 3rd Anniversary._

Like she said. Three damn years.

"Okay, I know. I _know_. This is totally shady of me." He leans forward and tries to capture her hands in his, but she pulls them away. He turns in his chair to signal for the cheque. "But come on babe, we're totally drying out."

Clarke's rage increases. "Excuse me?"

"Clarke." He looks serious now, even more serious than when he told her he slept with Roma Rae eleven times in the past week. "We barely have _sex_ , anymore. And we're both so caught up in school, I just think it's best."

She wants to throw up. Oh God, she wants to throw up.

The waitress returns with their cheque, and he smiles politely, asking for her to take the cake to the trash.

Finn leans his elbows on the table. The ends of his suit ruffles against him, and she internally scream, because who the fuck wears a suit when breaking up with your girlfriend of three years who you _God damn cheated on?_

A soul-suffocating bastard, that's who.

Finn sighs and takes a sip of his wine. "Listen, I never meant to hurt you. Honestly."

Clarke almost laughs. She briefly closes her eyes, because this can't be happening, this totally can't be happening. She's in third year of university, she's smart, she's good to him, she's _so_ good -

And then Finn takes her distraction as an opportunity, gripping her fingers in his hand.

"Can we still be friends?"


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I just got so excited thinking about the story, that I wrote the first chapter as soon as I could! I hope you guys enjoy this one, it's got some steamy Bellarke scenes! hehe.
> 
> Okay! I hope you guys enjoyed the prologue, and now it's time to get to the good stuff! Looking forward to seeing your reactions once you read this new posting! Xo.

_i._

Four months later.

Clarke stands in his dorm room, her arms crossed over her chest.

The sun begins to rise through the opening in his window, shinning against the posters and calendars posted on his walls. She yawns, the boy in the bed squirming naked between the sheets. What was his name again? Marco? Michael?

 _Whatever_.

The clock on his bedside table turns 7:00 am and she sighs.

Clarke reaches for her purse laying on the floor and pushes it over her shoulder. Her makeup bag slips from the pouch, and she rolls her eyes when she notices the box of condoms Octavia slipped in her purse before she left the bar.

" _You've been acting like a free woman,_ " she told her innocently. " _You can't be a free woman if you're pregnant._ "

Clarke slides into her heels, and her feet ache from the pressure. She tries to walk, but she's pretty sure she's still drunk and wearing the heels would just attract more attention to her more-than-occasional walk of shames.

She picks the heels up with her fingers and grasps the door handle, sparing one last look at Mark.

Or Matt. Max? _Whatever_.

It's a lot brighter outside than she expected, and Clarke shields her face from the sun. She hates the sun, because the sun is fucking rude when you're hungover and had a bad night with good boy who didn't know how to do bad thing to her.

Fucking _Mitchell_.

Rows of students lay unconscious on the front lawns, a typical sight on a Saturday morning at Longwood University. One boy has her arms wrapped around a girl, his pants around his ankles, exposing the spongebob boxers he's wearing underneath. That's another nightmare to wake up to.

She sighs in relief when she notices the landscape of her sorority house across the street. 7:00 am is the perfect window for anyone hoping to escape the humiliation of their wake of shame. Too early to recover from their drunken stupor, too late to escape the now awake person beside them.

She opens the front door, lowering her sunglasses to the dim light.

"Good morning."

Clarke jumps, cursing lowly.

She turns, growling when she notices Raven, Octavia, Bellamy and Wick standing at the kitchen counter. Her head aches, pounding at the edges of her mind, and she doesn't know if Octavia is wearing an orange or yellow shirt.

"Clarke." Raven tries to hide a smile. "How you feeling, honey?"

She drops her heels to the ground and groans.

Octavia sighs. "I'll get the gatorade."

Clarke stumbles towards them. She reaches for Raven's outstretched hand, allowing her to help her settle into a nearby stool. She leans onto the counter, letting the headache absorb her senses.

She feels Bellamy poke the tip of her nose. "What's with the sunglasses, Griffin?"

Clarke gives him the middle finger.

"You didn't answer any of our text messages last night, so we thought we'd wait up for you like the good friends we are," Octavia explains. She unwraps a gatorade bottle from it's plastic coverage, placing it in her hands. "Where'd you go last night after the bar?"

Clarke shrugs. "I don't know. One of the dorm buildings."

"With who?" Wick demands. "That kid, Myles?"

 _Myles_. That was his God damn name. She nods, twisting the cap off the gatorade bottle and drowning in it's anti-hangover blessings. The substance runs smooth along her throat, mixed with the after burn of vodka and tequila shots.

Raven raises an eyebrow. "That bad, huh?"

"Yeah. That bad."

Clarke removes her sunglasses and sets them on the counter. She squirms off the stool and walks towards the sink, washing the grease and reminder of Myles off her hands. How can someone be that _bad_?

"That's okay!" Octavia says. "You'll find someone way better than him."

Bellamy steps forward. "I volunteer."

"Ew." Clarke wipes her hands on a towel and pushes him away from the counter, stealing a piece of bacon off his plate. "I'd rather fuck Myles again then even _consider_ doing - "

"Clarke!" Octavia hisses, shuddering visibly. "Gross."

Bellamy waves her off. He leans forward and picks the second half of his bacon from her grasp. She rolls her eyes, and his gaze narrows, dark depths lighting in amusement.

Wick pushes himself onto the counter. "There's a party at our frat tonight, by the way."

Raven looks at Clarke. "You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"Why? Because Finn will be there?"

She hesitates. "Yes."

Clarke groans heavily. She pushes the loose strands of hair from her face, stopping quickly because the movement makes her head feel fuzzy. She breathes deeply, shaking her head.

"It's fine," she tells them. "I'm over him."

They stare at her in confusion.

"I am!"

Octavia nods, a stretched smile on her face. "Totally."

Clarke narrows her eyes, but before she can return a comment, she feels the tension in her stomach rising to her throat, and Raven holds back her hair as she throws up in the kitchen sink.

 _Totally_.

* * *

 

 _ii_.

Clarke sits on her bed, her hair damp from the shower.

She places the laptop between her legs, opening the screen to her display picture of New York City. She doesn't even like New York City. Finn changed it for her one day because he thought the previous picture she had of her, Raven, and Octavia wasn't as personal as a screensaver of New York City.

She scowls, her fingers quick as she types _How To Get Away With Murder_ on the keyboard.

A row of videos and pictures come up, and she groans, recognizing the search results.

"Not that God damn show," she whispers in irritation. She breathes deeply, typing in a new sentence in the search engine.

_How To Get Away With Murdering Your Ex-Boyfriend By -_

There's a knock on her bedroom door, and Clarke curses, slamming her laptop shut and pushing it under her bed.

"Come in!"

The knob twists, and Raven and Octavia enter her room. They slip off their shoes and crawl onto her bed, wearing similar expressions of concern. Octavia begins to curl Clarke's hair around her finger, and she sighs, knowing what's coming next.

"Hey," she grunts.

"Hey." Raven plucks at the dust caught in her robe. "We just wanted to double check that you were good for tonight."

Clarke's eyes widen. "Guys. Seriously, I'm _fine_."

_Yes, Clarke. Because researching on murder means you're fine._

Octavia smiles. She pushes Clarke onto her back, laying her gently on the mattress with her head in Octavia's lap. Her fingers thread through her hair, soothing, and she hates her for being such a good damn friend.

"You might be now. But you'll be drunk, and unpredictable." She shrugs her shoulders. "Bad things tend to happen."

Raven nods. "Yeah. Like sleeping with that Myles kid even though we told you it would probably count as statutory rape."

Clarke lifts her finger. "Fuck off."

Octavia places her hand down, and she can see the shadow of her scowl she sends towards Raven. Good cop, bad cop. That's their deal. That's the pact the three of them made.

Octavia bites on her lip and returns to patting down Clarke's hair. The good cop.

"You've been so focused on trying to physically get over him, I feel like you haven't really dealt with the emotions yet," she mumbles.

Clarke shakes her head and pushes herself into a sitting position. "Listen, I'll have you guys. And alcohol." She raises her eyebrows in amusement. "There's nothing better."

Raven chews on her bottom lip. She narrows her eyes, calculating, trying to see the creases in Clarke's gaze that she isn't even aware of herself. She seems satisfied as she leans onto the back of her heels, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Okay." She sighs. " _Okay_. But if he bothers you? You tell us."

Clarke nods, Octavia's braids loosening in her hair.

"I promise."

* * *

 

 _iii_.

Well, _shit_.

Clarke groans heavily, clutching the beer in her hand as she stares across the room. Stares at the soul suffocating bastard that stands near the fire place, pretending to laugh as he secretly scopes out every walking vagina around him.

Soul-suffocating bastards are the fucking _worst_.

Raven rests a reassuring hand on Clarke's shoulder, and she brushes it off. Her fingers feel icy as she tips the beer bottle towards her mouth and finishes it. A frat boy, some jock, walks by them, and she reaches for his beer, jugging his drink as well.

Octavia briefly closes her eyes. "Clarke - "

She turns towards them and smiles.

"Don't worry about me." She places the bottles on the table beside him, the one being used to play beer pong. Octavia opens her mouth, and Clarke waves her hands, gesturing for silence. "I'm going to get something to drink."

Raven narrows her eyes. "You just downed five beers and we've been here for half an hour."

"That's right." She grins more widely, more convincing, because there's no way in hell she's staying sober after seeing her cheating ex-boyfriend for the first time in four months. "That's why I'm getting some water."

Clarke steps away from them, slightly stumbling in her step as she weaves through the crowd of people. Sweaty limbs press against her, and she gags, squeezing past the rows of couples dry humping each other in the hallway.

A sorority girl smiles into her cup. "I love college."

Clarke approaches the kitchen and bends near one of the cupboards where Bellamy keeps his hidden stack of alcohol. She opens it, searching through the bottles of vodka and rum, her fingers running along the label of tequila.

"You've got to be kidding me, Griffin."

Clarke sighs. She grips the tequila bottle in her hand and closes the cupboard, lifting herself from the ground. She turns around and grins when her eyes meet Bellamy's, his gaze darkening at the drink in her hands.

He smirks and crosses his arms over his chest. "I would at least appreciate you asking."

Clarke shakes her head. "No way in hell."

"First my rug," he steps forward and reaches for a shot glass behind her. "And now this?"

Clarke smiles. She twists the cap off and pours a shot into the two glasses he gives to her, filling it to the top of the rim. He takes one from her, and they nod, tilting it into their mouths in unison.

She gags, coughing. Bellamy hands her a cup of coca cola.

"If you're talking about that rug I spilled wine on, then get over it." She takes a sip of the soda, the pop smoothing her throat. "It was only seventy bucks."

"Yeah, well the new rug was two hundred bucks."

She laughs. "Two hundred bucks? Who spends two hundred on a rug?"

Bellamy shrugs. "A guy who likes to get _laid_ on it."

Clarke gasps. She pushes him back, the sound of his laughter echoing through her head. She feels dizzy now, not drunk, not tipsy, just the perfect stage right in between. She shakes her head and takes another shot.

"You're a pig," she tells him.

He narrows his eyes. "I prefer asshole."

"Fine." She curls her hair behind her ears and points at his chest. " _Asshole_."

Bellamy winks and grabs the bottle from her. She pouts, sighing as he puts on the cap and returns to the cupboard. He smiles when he notices her irritated expression, handing her a wine cooler.

"Let's not think about the recent stupid thing you did when you were wasted," he tells her.

Clarke rolls her eyes. "I'm an adult. I can take care of myself."

There's an echo of laughter from the living room, and Clarke cringes, recognizing the tone. She pushes the wine cooler into Bellamy's chest, and he curses, following her as she stumbles from the kitchen.

She see's Raven and Octavia, their eyes filled with annoyance as they stare into the distance. Clarke bites on her lip and tightens her fist with each giggle she hears, with each fucking -

"You have got to be kidding me."

Because, of all the whores in the world, of every bitch who ever existed, it's Roma Rae who giggles as Finn whispers something in her ear. It's Roma Rae who touches his shoulder and batters her eyes at him.

It's Roma Rae who he fucking _cheated_ on her with.

Finn turns, and is the first to notice the rage in Clarke's eyes.

"Oh, shit."

She runs towards them, fast and quick and drunk.

"You motherfucker!"

And then she feels a ball of hair in her grasp and Octavia holding her back as she tackles Roma Rae to the ground, pushing her face into Bellamy's new two hundred dollar rug.

* * *

 

 _iv_.

Her hand hurts like a bitch.

Like painful, a real pain. A pain worse than cramps, and final exams, a pain worse than the realization that Derek Shepherd will never return to Seattle Grace hospital with his exquisite jawline again.

Yeah. A _Grey's Anatomy_ kind of pain.

"I can't believe that just happened." Raven laughs loudly, and Octavia shoves her. "That was fucking _awesome_."

Clarke sits on Bellamy's bedroom drawer, wincing as he presses a pack of ice against her hand. The skin surrounding her knuckles displays a light purple, a forming bruise, and she hisses when Bellamy adjusts the ice bag.

"Relax," he tells her, raising his eyebrows. "It shouldn't even hurt that much."

And, okay, maybe it doesn't. But she's tipsy and stupid and hormonal, and she's allowed to exaggerate and feel bad about herself.

Octavia stands from her position on the floor. She crosses her arms over her chest and walks towards them, her eyes narrowing as she observes Clarke's swollen muscles. Bad cop? Good cop? Clarke has no fucking clue.

"As satisfying as it was to see you take Roma down, you shouldn't have done that," she tells her.

Clarke breathes deeply. "I know."

"She could have pressed charges."

"I _know_ ," Clarke presses.

"Whatever, the bitch was fine." Raven takes a sip of her beer and passes it to Clarke. She finishes it in one gulp. "The moment we got you off her, she totally ran. So at least you didn't knock her unconscious."

Octavia shakes her head. "Yeah. At least."

There's a knock at the bedroom door, and Raven curses under her breath. She reaches for the handle and pulls it open, revealing Harper at the doorway. She smiles uneasily at them, as if there's a chance Clarke will attack her too.

"Hey." She pats her hands down her soaking shirt. "Uhm, so, Fox is totally throwing up again. Like Level 5 throwing up."

Bellamy sighs. "Where?"

"On the front lawn."

Octavia and Raven look at him.

"Don't worry," he says. "I can take care of the princess."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "Gross. But go ahead, I'll meet you back at the house."

Raven nods. She leans forward and kisses her on the cheek, muttering a low congratulations into her ear. She follows Harper down the stairs, the versus of music echoing from the ongoing party. Octavia bites on her lip and turns to them.

"Don't do anything stupid," she suggests.

"Come on, I'm with your brother." She pokes Bellamy with her good hand. "How much more stupid can it get?"

Octavia smiles, her shoulders sagging. She reaches forward and ruffles Clarke's hair before running towards the bedroom door and closing it behind her, cursing Fox's name as she disappears down the stairs.

Clarke turns towards Bellamy. He lowers his eyes, shifting his body in the space between her legs. He continues to apply pressure to her hand, his curls rolling carelessly across his forehead as the music reduces around them.

" _So_." Clarke exhales deeply. Damn is she tired. "Since I'm terribly injured, does this mean you have to do everything I ask?"

Bellamy smirks. "Maybe. For a new God damn rug."

"Oh, yeah. I fucked it up again, didn't I?"

He lifts his head, looking at her with those damn eyes that seem as if they're piercing into her soul. So stupid. Who has eyes like that? Her head feels fuzzy, she needs another drink to level herself.

"That's okay," he tells her, voice rough. "I'm sure blood is easier to clean then red wine."

Clarke wrinkles her nose. She remembers hitting and kicking and scratching, and Roma crying like a little bitch. But she doesn't remember blood. She didn't even know she drew blood. That's fucking awesome.

"Well it is Roma's blood, so I would just burn it." She shrugs, looking at the ceiling. "You know, in case her demon spirit comes back to haunt you."

He smiles sarcastically. "I already have demon spirits haunting me."

Clarke gasps, hitting his arm as he laughs. The movement causes him to press harder against her hand, and she squirms uneasily on his bedroom drawer. It doesn't hurt, it really doesn't, but she wants him to feel bad.

 _Douche_.

"Your bedside manners are horrible," she tells him.

"You'll live."

"I won't!" she hisses. She briefly closes her eyes and sighs deeply. "I just attacked a woman who my ex-boyfriend cheated on me with in the middle of a frat party. It's totally rock bottom."

Bellamy shakes his head. "No, it's not. It's awesome."

"How?"

He looks at her, as if it were obvious. "Because you just attacked a woman who your ex-boyfriend cheated on you with in the middle of a frat party. And plus," he grins, that stupid grin on his stupid face, "it was pretty hot."

She rolls her eyes, shifting on the wooden surface. Her arms brush against his, and she shivers, because his arms are so big and gross. Horrible. His muscles are disgusting.

"You're a child," she mutters. "You know that?"

"I thought we agreed on asshole."

Clarke nods. "Asshole. Good."

Bellamy removes the pack of ice from her skin. She waves her hand, allowing the warm air to replace the cool sensation. He places his palms on either side of the bedroom drawer, leaning forward.

"Good," he repeats.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Fine."

" _Fine_."

Clarke stares at him, all brown eyes and curly hair. So God damn frustrating. She feels her nails dig into the skin of her wrists, and she wants to hit that stupid smirk off his face. She wants to shake him and shove him and -

But she doesn't, she does a totally reasonable thing.

She kisses him.

She grabs his face, his _stupid_ face, and kisses him. A hard and angry kiss. It's short, his lips barely having enough time to react before she's pulling back, her eyes widening in shock as she drops her hand from his cheek.

Bellamy blinks. "Griffin."

She squints, because the room is moving around her and it's suddenly hard to see. Her lips feel fuzzy. A type of fuzzy that she doesn't want, a type of fuzzy that Bellamy Blake isn't capable of providing.

"Oh, my God." She shakes her head. "I think I'm going to throw up."

He frowns. "Seriously?"

Clarke nudges him away from her, and she slides from the bedroom drawer, her legs leaning against the wood. She wipes at her lips, slightly swollen and red, and crosses her arms over her chest in annoyance.

"Why did you do that?" she demands.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. "You're the one who kissed me."

"Then why did you let me do that?"

He looks at her in exasperation. His hand runs wildly through his hair, his messy curls, and she wonders if it would have been different, if she gripped his curls instead of his cheek.

 _It doesn't matter_ , she tells herself. _Stupid face. Stupid hair. Stupid Bellamy_.

"What the fuck did you want me to do?"

"I don't know," she hisses. "Punch me. Kill me."

Bellamy smirks. "Sounds good to me."

Clarke groans and stomps her foot. "Oh, my God." She pushes at his chest, gripping at the material of his shirt. "You are such an asshole. As soon as my punching hand recovers, I am going to - "

She doesn't get to finish, doesn't even get another word out. There's a curse, and then Bellamy Blake's stupid hands grab her face, pulling her towards him and pressing his lips against hers.

_So stupid._

Clarke gasps against his mouth. She feels dizzy, out of breath, and he pushes her against the bedroom drawer. She whimpers, her arms locking around her neck as she returns the pressure of his lips.

She opens her mouth under his, daring, and then everything becomes blurry.

Bellamy groans, his hands travelling the length of her body. His touch is hard, furious, massaging the skin against her upper thighs. She pants, leaning from the drawer and guiding him forward, her lips raw and swollen.

The back of his legs hit the bed frame, and she pulls away from him, removing his shirt.

 _Fuck_.

She kisses him, struggling to hide the lust curling her vision at the sight of his body. Her fingers glide along his toned stomach, his muscles tensing under her touch. She grins, placing both of her hands against his chest, his God damn perfect chest, and pushing him onto the bed.

He stares at her with wild eyes. "I thought you were terribly injured."

Clarke climbs onto his lap and pulls her shirt over her head. "Stop talking."

She throws the shirt across the room and surges forward, flattening him against the mattress. She squeezes her thighs into his hips, and he grunts, massaging her ass. His skin is hot beneath hers, bare torsos rubbing onto each other.

She moans, threading her arms between them and grasping his belt buckle.

"I swear to God," she heaves, removing the belt from his pants. "You better be as good as you say you are."

Bellamy smirks, placing his hands on her hips. "Stop talking."

He turns them over, pinning her against the sheets. His arms rest on either side of her head as he nibbles on the skin of her neck, and she unbuttons her own jeans, pushing them to her ankles and kicking them off.

And then they stop talking, all together, completely.

They stop talking for a while.

* * *

 

 _v_.

She's been hit by a truck, that's the conclusion she comes to when Clarke wakes up the next morning.

A literal two-thousand-pound-speeding-down-the-highway truck. _Fuck_. She rustles amongst her bedsheets, reaching for the material and gripping them between her fists. She sighs, attempting to pull them over her face.

But they don't move.

She tugs again. Nothing.

Clarke frowns. She opens her eyes to the overwhelming brightness surrounding her. What time is it? 6? 7? She yawns, rubbing against her eyelids and turning her body on the mattress.

She would have screamed, she really would have, if she didn't recognize the brown, curly hair.

Clarke gasps, clutching the bedsheets to her chest. Her eyes adjust to the light surrounding her, and she notices the room, the stupid Longwood University banners posted onto the walls. Her stomach turns, and she peers forward, her eyes widening when she sees Bellamy's sleeping, naked, very naked, form.

_What the fuck?_

She rolls onto the side of the bed and pushes herself into a sitting position. Ouch. That hurt. Her mind races, and she closes her eyes, remembering lean muscles and brown eyes, long, stretched-out moans, big, big -

No, way. They totally _fucked_.

No. Way.

She stands, struggling to block the image of sleeping with her best friend's brother. Someone she knew since she was twelve years old, when he was lengthy and innocent, an entire era before Finn, the soul-suffocating bastard.

She runs her hands along her face. It's so wrong. So good and so right but so wrong.

Clarke stumbles across the carpet, tripping over the layers of clothes on the ground. She reaches for her bra and hooks it on, pulling her shirt and panties onto her body. She searches for the time, grabbing her phone that rests on the bedside table.

Damn. Missed calls and messages. Finn Collins. She sighs, her eyes widening when she notices the flashing amount of numbers at the top of the screen.

6:50 am. 10 minutes before the walk of shame window closes.

Clarke internally groans. She pulls her hair into a ponytail and walks quietly across the room. Where are her damn pants? She looks underneath the mattress, looks through the pile of his clothes that settle by the drawer.

"Looking for these?"

She turns, frowning when Bellamy sits up from the bed, her jeans wounded tightly around his wrists.

"So." He yawns, his eyes still narrow with sleep. "Clarke Griffin likes it dirty, huh?"

She shakes her head. A flash of memories colours her vision, and she remembers laughter, wrapping the pants around his hands and holding them above him. She sighs, walking towards him and ripping the jeans from his hold.

"This did not happen," she tells him.

He nods. "Right."

"I'm serious." She places her legs into her pants and pulls them onto her waist. "I was drunk. You were drunk."

"No, I wasn't."

Clarke stares at him, surprised. She flattens her shirt against her stomach and crosses her arms over her chest, watching him. Watching him watching her with those stupid, stupid eyes.

And that stupid chest. Which is just _stupid_.

She swallows thickly. "You weren't?"

Bellamy shakes his head.

Clarke sighs heavily, her shoulders sagging. "Sure. Whatever. It doesn't matter. I was." She laughs and looks at the ceiling in desperation. "Which is good, because then that means I don't have to explain my actions, and I don't have to recall a probably horrible experience."

He raises his eyebrows. "Trust me, Griffin. You'll remember it."

Clarke scoffs. She rubs her hands against her temples, trying to sooth the thunder rising in her head. Two different men in two days. Who the fuck does that? No matter how good - no, no matter how bad, the last one was.

"Just . . . " She breathes deeply. "Let's pretend this never happened."

He shrugs. "Sure thing, boss."

She nods. "Good."

" _Fine_."

Clarke huffs, reaching for her phone and pushing it into her jeans pocket. She looks at him, at the indent in the mattress where her body used to be. She shakes her head and presses a smile against her face, walking towards the door and shutting it behind her.

She begins to rush down the hallway, cursing quietly.

Clarke turns back to the door, but Bellamy is already there, holding up her shoes. She narrows her eyes and takes them from his offering hand, his skin still hot and pulsing.

"Thanks," she mutters.

And then she hurries down the hallway, slipping on her sandals as she stumbles down the stairs of his frat house. Of _Finn's_ frat house. Two soul-suffocating bastards in one damn place.

She checks the time again, sighing deeply.

6:59 am.

Perfect.

* * *

 

 _vi_.

There are hickeys _everywhere_.

Clarke stands in her bathroom, clutching the towel to her body as she examines the marks on her skin. There's a spot between her shoulder blades, on her forearm, her thigh, her -

Her _everything_.

Asshole.

She sighs heavily, her damp hair dripping water onto the tiles. Her head still feels cloudy, and so do her memories, but she remembers his lips, and the way he used them. She really remembers that part.

She rubs her fists against her eyelids. She shouldn't be thinking about him, or his hands, or his arms. She shouldn't even know what it felt like, she shouldn't have even _liked_ it.

She tells herself she didn't. She hated every minute.

"Clarke!" There's multiple whispers outside her door, soft and harsh. Good cop, bad cop. "Are you awake?"

Clarke exhales. She tightens the towel around her and steps out of the fogginess of her bathroom. She stumbles over thrown shirts and skirts on her bedroom floor, twisting the handle to Raven and Octavia in her doorway.

Raven raises her eyebrows. "Fuck. Have you been awake for a while?"

"Yeah." She brushes her hand against her shoulder, covering the hickeys that lay across her skin. "Rough night."

Raven and Octavia look at each other.

"We didn't hear you get in last night," Octavia says in concern.

Clarke waves them off. She leans against her bedroom door in an attempt to shield them from the clothes that lay on her bed. The clothes she wore last night. The clothes that Bellamy Blake stripped from her only hours earlier.

She smiles. "You know, I was like, so tired, so I slept on the couch."

Octavia nods, her eyes widening when Raven leans forward. She narrows her eyes, and Clarke recognizes that look, recognizes the concentration and focus in her gaze. She shifts away from her glare, swallowing thickly.

"My God. _Clarke_." She touches the hickey on Clarke's jaw. The spot she specifically told him not to mark. "Is that from Roma?"

Clarke stares at them. "Yes."

Raven shakes her head. "That bitch," she hisses, her hands clenching into fists. "I'm going to kill her."

"Yeah," Octavia agrees. "I know what I said before, but I'm going to fucking - "

"Torch her?" Raven suggests.

"Exactly."

Clarke groans. Her head hurts way too much for future murder preparations. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, breathing in the good and breathing out the bad. Breathing in the image of kicking Roma's ass, breathing out the image of fucking Octavia's brother.

But then that image, that stupid Bellamy image, returns to her, and -

" - Clarke?" Raven snaps her fingers. "You good?"

She opens her eyes, blinking rapidly. Raven and Octavia stare at her in concern, and she looks at where her nails dig into the towel, the hand with the purple bruising that doesn't hurt as bad as her racing pulse.

"Yeah." She coughs, clearing her throat. "You know what guys, I'm so tired. And I have lots of homework. I'll see you later, okay?"

And then she doesn't even let them respond, doesn't even let them react before she's closing the bedroom door. She runs to her bed and collapses against it, pushing her face into the mattress and screaming, totally screaming, because this so isn't possible. This is so not cool.

There is no way. No way in _hell_ , that Clarke Griffin enjoyed any minute of Bellamy Blake last night. No way she enjoyed the way his fingers coaxed inside of her, or the way he thrusted rough and hard against her, as if he knew how she wanted it, or needed it, or -

Oh, God. Ew. Gross. So gross.

There is no way Bellamy Blake is good in bed. There's no way she's ever doing it again.

No. Fucking. Way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's chapter 1! What did you guys think? Do you like the way Clarke and Bellamy's friendship is? Did you like reading Clarke take down Roma? I would love to hear what you guys think!
> 
> I have exams all this week, so the next chapter should be up by the end of next week by latest. Keep checking back for me and enjoy your weekend and Christmas break! xoxo.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Just finishing exams, and now the updates should be becoming more regular over the next month. I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter, and now onto the second.
> 
> P.S. in regards to the one comment on my handling of consent between Clarke and Bellamy, I really appreciate it. You mentioning your opinion definitely makes me more aware of the content I write, but I hope you know that, completely, Clarke and Bellamy's moment was consensual. If not noticed yet, Clarke wasn't exactly that drunk when sleeping with Bellamy, though she uses it as a defence mechanism because she doesn't want to admit it to herself that she wanted to be with him. I hope this makes you more comfortable with the story, and I'll definitely be more aware of the words and situations I use. Much love, xo.

i.

Clarke taps her foot impatiently. 7:45 am. Fuck.

She stands in line for the on campus coffee shop, her hands crossed over her chest. There are seven more people in front of her, and she has class in ten minutes, but going to class without coffee is like going to class without a laptop. Totally impossible to function.

She sighs, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes.

"Griffin."

Clarke groans. She recognizes that voice, and, even more so, even more _disgustingly_ so, she recognizes the fan of his words as he breathes against her neck. She turns towards him, meeting his eyes with her icy stare.

"Blake." The words feel like chalk in her mouth. "What a pleasant surprise."

He touches a finger to her jaw. "I think you have a bruise."

Clarke scoffs. She pushes his hand from her face and narrows her eyes, trying not to notice the small smirk he offers. That's what he does, when he knows he's in trouble. He flashes that signature Blake smirk.

It's Monday, and not even eight in the morning, and she hates that Blake smirk.

"Shut _up_ ," she whispers, looking at the students standing nearby. "I can't get rid of it."

Bellamy winks. "That's the point."

"Oh, _real_ mature," she hisses.

His smile widens, and he runs his tongue along his lower lip. The gesture makes her shiver, her eyes unfocused and her head buzzing, so much that she doesn't realize the space between her and where she should be in the line. It's the coffee, she tells herself. She just needs to wake up.

He narrows his eyes. "You think I'm being immature? You're the one refusing to admit that we had awesome - "

" _Sh_." She points an accusing finger at his chest. The person standing in line behind him looks at them with concern. "It was not awesome."

He raises his eyebrows at that. "So you do remember," he says.

She feels her face flush, and she swallows thickly. "Yeah. I do." She threads her hair around her ears and stares at him, stares at anywhere but his chest, or his eyes, or his fucking _lips_. "And it wasn't awesome."

Bellamy shakes his head. "Sure. Keep telling - "

There's a dark shadow in the distance, and then the image of messy hair, all long and curled along his forehead. Clarke squeals, gripping Bellamy's shirt and pulling him against her, directly in the sight of Finn Collins.

"Griffin." Bellamy shakes his head, irritated. "What are you - "

She touches a finger to her lips. "Just. Hide me for a second."

He stares at her. His look is questioning, burning into her, and he sighs deeply, turning his body. She tries to stop him, she does, but he's a lot stronger than she is, because, you know, he has these really big muscles, and . . .

"Hey, Finn!"

Clarke gasps, hitting his chest. "I hate you."

Bellamy turns to her, shrugging. He peels his fingers from his shirt and flattens the material against his chest, shifting his body forward. Finn comes into focus then, his smile fading when he notices her.

_Oh, God. Oh, great._

Bellamy leans down and presses his lips against her ear. "You got this, champ."

She glares at him. "You're dead, Blake."

He grins, flicking his finger against the hickey on her jaw. She stiffens as he walks away, the image of his black curls being replaced with the brown waves in front of her, the brown eyes of that damn soul-suffocating bastard.

That soul-suffocating bastard who hasn't stopped calling her since she attacked him and his girlfriend on the weekend.

Finn stops in front of her. "Hey."

"Hey."

He shoves his fists into his pockets. "How's your hand?"

"It's okay," she mutters.

Finn nods. "Good."

Clarke sighs, looking at him. He looks different, and she's not sure why, not sure if it's the fading lipstick stain on his cheek or the new shortness to his hair. But he looks different, and that's good, because she needs different.

She opens her mouth, but then she hears someone calling his name.

Clarke looks up, narrowing her eyes when she notices Roma waving for him from across the hallway. Roma notices her too then, and she scowls, her finger coming up to skim a tight line across her neck, in that motion that makes it look like you're about to murder someone.

Yeah. Roma. Bring it fucking _on_.

Finn sighs. "I should probably - "

"Go," Clarke hisses.

He nods, his eyes scanning the hickey on her jaw. He should be acting like an asshole. Why isn't he acting like an asshole? It's so much easier to hate him when he's being the biggest douchebag to ever exist.

Then he's walking away from her, and Clarke looks down at her phone. 7:59 am. She hates him, hates Bellamy, and she's late for class.

And, amongst all this hate, she doesn't even have time for her God damn fucking coffee.

Which is just, horrible.

* * *

 ii.

Her day doesn't get better. It gets a lot worse.

She's late for her morning lecture, which - _surprise_ \- her professor decides to hand out a quiz on the last two chapters of her history textbook. It's on World War I and the consequences of Germany's involvement, and, _unfortunately_ , she only lightly skimmed through the readings while she was pre-drinking on vodka over the weekend.

So. That sucked.

But then it gets worse, because of all the headaches and exhaustion, she comes home that night to Raven and Octavia watching the recording of the _American Horror Story: Hote_ l premiere in the living room. And Wick is there.

And Bellamy. Stupid asshole-who-made-her-talk-to-her-ex-boyfriend Bellamy.

"Clarke," Raven greets when she notices her standing in the doorway. "You look exhausted."

There's an agonizing scream, and Octavia jumps, her eyes widening as she watches the television screen. There's the image of a man in a hotel room, his face pushed into the mattress as a masked pervert goes at him from behind. With a fucking knife penis. You know, that good quality TV.

"Do you know how much pain he is in right now?" Octavia murmurs.

Clarke nods. "Yes."

She see's the glimpse of Bellamy's smile from across the room.

There's more wailing, and Octavia hides her face behind Raven's shoulder. The man on the television screen looks pretty miserable, and Clarke sighs, because she totally gets the whole 'I can't believe I'm having sex with this guy' thing.

She breathes heavily. "Blake," she calls, "help me get some beer."

Bellamy stands from the couch. "Anything better than that shit."

Octavia smacks his leg as he walks by her, and he grins, flicking at her hair. He walks towards Clarke, putting that damn signature smirk on his smug face as they enter kitchen. He exhales, leaning his body against the counter.

"So, princess," he says, "what's the real reason - "

Clarke surges forward and punches him in the arm.

" _Hey_." He stares at her wildly, rubbing the skin. "The fuck, Griffin?"

She points a finger at his chest. "That's for leaving me alone with Finn, moron."

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. He shakes his head and pats his shoulder, crossing his arms over his chest. Clarke pouts, because she really wanted him to cry, or bruise, or bleed or _something_.

"You're the one who dated him for three years," he informs her.

"Yeah. And then he _broke up_ with me after three years."

He shrugs. "And?"

Clarke scoffs. "Oh, my _God_." She lifts her hand, but he only rolls his eyes, pushing down her fist before she can hit him again. "You are a such a dick. Do you know how awkward it was?"

There's another scream in the distance, and Octavia cries out, the sound of the popcorn bowl hitting the floor. Raven curses and groans, the sound of Wick's laughter echoing into the kitchen.

Bellamy shrugs. "As if it would be any less awkward if you were have it somewhere else."

"Not really. Roma was there," she tells him. "She looked like she was going to decapitate me."

Bellamy laughs, and she cuts him off with a glare.

He widens his eyes. "That's so mean."

Clarke groans, pushing away from the counter. She walks over to the fridge and pulls it open, smelling week-old yogurts and protein shakes. She sniffles, grabbing a beer from the bottom shelf, turning to lean against the fridge door.

She tries to twist the cap off, but her hands feel cold. She listens to the footsteps as Bellamy walks over and takes the bottle from her grasp. His arms brush her wrist as he opens it, the scent of alcohol filling the space between them.

He looks at her. "Okay. I'm sorry for leaving you alone with your boyfriend."

" _Ex_. Boyfriend," she corrects him.

"Right." He smiles. "Ex-boyfriend."

Clarke nods, slanting the beer to her lips. She can feel his eyes on her, even as she lowers her gaze to the faded hickey on her forearm. His breath is low against her hair, and she sighs, lifting her face towards him.

She narrows her eyes. "Stop looking at me like that."

He tilts his head. "Like what?" he challenges.

"Like you're imaging me naked."

Bellamy smirks. He leans forward and steps closer towards her, his shirt sliding against hers. He presses his mouth to her ear, his lips tracing the line of her skin, and she's thankful for the darkness of the kitchen to disguise her growing blush.

"I don't have to imagine," he whispers.

Clarke swallows thickly. She remembers this, remembers the feel of his mouth on her neck, on her thighs and her stomach. She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, sighing deeply as his nose skims the curls in her hair, his hands cradling -

" - you dropped the fucking drink all over me!"

Clarke's eyes widen, and she pushes him away from her. Her heart feels stupid inside her chest, and she runs her fingers down her face, because that was wrong. That was so wrong. It was a bad day, and he's a bad person. That makes sense, doesn't it?

Raven walks into the kitchen with Octavia, her shirt soaked with soda stains.

"Blake," she hisses when she see's Bellamy. "Your sister doesn't know how to control herself. You know that?"

Bellamy coughs. "Yeah." He looks at Clarke, and the lust in his eyes is replaced with that familiar playfulness, that goofiness that transforms him back into Frat Boy Bell. "I know."

Clarke shakes her head, gripping the beer in her hands as she runs from the kitchen, and the people in it.

* * *

 iii.

She thinks about it a lot. And she hates herself for it.

The week goes by agonizingly slow, each day becoming more filled with thoughts of his hands, and his arms, and his lips. She tells herself she was drunk. She was drunk, wasn't she? Her mind was totally not in the right state, and thats why . . . that's _why_ -

But then she remembers she wasn't drunk. That she was sober and coherent when he brought her to his bedroom and iced her hand. That she slept with Bellamy while sober and coherent.

Wrong. What happened was so wrong. Bad, Clarke. _Bad_.

"Clarke?" Raven snaps her fingers. "Wake up!"

Clarke blinks, her eyes shifting from the textbook beneath her. She rubs her palm against her forehead, glancing at Raven who sits in front of her on her bed. She breathes heavily and wiggles her hand in front of Clarke's face.

Clarke shakes her head. "Huh?"

"The answer to question four," Raven explains, taping her pencil to her notepad. She narrows her eyes, calculating her expression. "You okay there, little Griffin?"

Clarke nods. "Fine. Just tired."

Octavia rolls on the bed, squirming onto her stomach. She places her phone on the mattress and rests her head between her hands, looking at Clarke in exasperation.

"Well, you better get out of your funk. We have to start decorating the house for tomorrow's party," she tells her.

Clarke sighs. "We're still having that?"

"It's the forty year anniversary of Kappa," Raven exclaims. "It's going to be huge. Everyone's going to be here."

Clarke groans. She's not in the mood for people, or talking to people, or trying to be nice and friendly with them. The alcohol she can deal with, that's the best damn part, but seeing Finn? Seeing _Bellamy_? No. She's not looking forward to it.

She drops her head onto her study notes. "Great."

Raven opens her mouth, that bad cop shinning through, but then there's a vibration, loud and ringing in the bedroom. Octavia scrambles for her phone, gripping it in her grasp, and slides it open. She smiles into the device, her cheeks flushing as she quietly giggles.

Raven rolls her eyes. "Are you still texting that dude?"

"Who?" Octavia bites on her bottom lip to keep from grinning. "Lincoln?"

Raven and Clarke nod.

Octavia winks. "Maybe," she whispers.

Clarke gasps, reaching forward and prying the phone from Octavia's hand. She pouts as Clarke scrolls through the message, Raven leaning over her as they read the words - _"can't wait to see you"_ , a message about the party, a picture of Octavia's -

Octavia rips the phone from their hands.

"Oh my God, O," Raven mutters, and she tries to sound accusing, but Clarke can hear the proud smile in her voice. "He's in your brother's frat. He'll never let you date a frat boy."

Octavia shrugs. "Bell is a frat boy," she reasons.

Clarke raises her eyebrows, the poor thing has no idea. She leans forward and places her hands on Octavia's shoulders, her tiny shoulders, and squeezes them tightly and reassuringly.

"Exactly, honey," Clarke sighs. "Exactly."

* * *

 iv.

She goes to the liquor store a couple hours before the party, her hair still damp from her shower. She wasn't going to go, was just going to pry on other people's alcohol all night, but Octavia yelled at her for not being prepared for the _biggest night on campus_ , and basically kicked her out.

That's how she gets before they host parties. Like her daughter is about to go next in the beauty pageant.

Clarke stares at the row of alcohol in front of her, narrowing her eyes. She barely comes here, consistently relying on men to buy for her at the bar or slip her a red cup at parties. (She watches them pour the drink though, she's not _that_ stupid and desperate).

She taps her foot impatiently, reaching forward and grabbing a case of beer. Good enough.

She turns from the aisle, walking towards the cashier. A chorus of Celine Dion plays quietly throughout the store, and she hums to the lyrics, shifting the case of beer comfortably in her hands. She passes the next aisle, and then stops, noticing a familiar flop of curly hair.

Clarke shakes her head when she notices Bellamy contemplating a section of alcohol, his arms crossed over his chest.

_Of course._

She stares at him for across the aisle. "Make sure you get tequila," she calls, pulling her damp hair over her shoulder. "Your secret cabinet is running low."

Bellamy turns at the sound of his voice, looking aimlessly around the store until he spots her in front of him. He smiles, observing her sweat pants and gym shirt before turning back to his aisle of options.

"Yeah, because you keep drinking it," he says.

Clarke rolls her eyes. "Well, it's quite hard being sober when I'm around you."

Bellamy chuckles. He reaches for a bottle of alcohol on the shelf and turns it in his hands, analyzing the label. He shrugs and steps away from the collection, walking towards her with his messy hair and playful eyes.

He sighs when he stands in front of her, eyeing the product in her hands.

"Case of beer?" he questions. "Really?"

Clarke narrows her eyes. "What's the problem?"

"You're hosting a party, Griffin," he reminds her.

"Whatever. People show up wasted anyways."

He smirks, approaching the cashier and placing his bottle of tequila on the counter. Clarke huffs. Weird. He should be staring at her, or flirting with her, or something. She stands behind him and places the case of beer on the floor.

She sighs and settles her hands on her hips, tapping her foot. The cashier informs Bellamy of the total, and he slides a hand into his pocket and brings out his wallet. Clarke watches the veins in his forearms flex as he pulls it out, his muscles curving along the action.

He really does have nice arms. That doesn't mean she likes them. Or him.

She shakes her head. She shouldn't be thinking these things. He's Bellamy Blake, a total shit disturber in their hometown. She grew up with him, knew him before she even got her _period_. What she's feeling shouldn't even be legal.

But then he talks, and she doesn't even know what he's saying, but his voice sounds so raspy and rough and -

"Clarke?"

She widens her eyes. She really has to stop fucking doing that.

Bellamy tilts his head towards the cashier. "You're up," he tells her. He grabs his tequila from the cashier and lifts her case of beer onto the counter, nodding towards the employee. He turns back to her. "I'll see you later."

Clarke grins, waiting until she hears the store bell ring before stepping forward.

She sighs, the tension leaving her body as the cashier asks her for the total amount. She gives him cash, not expecting change, and turns away from him, desperately wanting to leave and rewash her body of the scent and feel of Bellamy Blake.

"Ma'am?" The cashier calls softly, rubbing his hands. "We're offering free condoms this weekend. Would you like any?"

She turns to him, staring.

"No, thanks," she stutters. "I'm good."

She's about to turn back around when he speaks again. "Are you sure?" he counters.

" _Yes_."

The word comes out harshly, low, and he see's the widening of his eyes. She returns the glare, waiting for him to crack, but he doesn't, and she realizes that he's waiting for _her_ to crack.

He knows. He totally knows she was checking out Bellamy in line and now she has to kill him. She sighs heavily and steps forward, taking one condom from him. You know, just in case.

The cashier smiles, because he totally knows, and she takes a second condom package.

You know, just in case.

* * *

 v.

"To Kappa!"

Clarke screams, wildly shaking her head as Raven raises her shot glass above her head. The scent of vodka fills her senses, and Octavia squeals beside them, echoing the words and lifting the glass to her lips, swallowing the alcohol in one gulp.

Clarke repeats the action, coughing at the burn that scratches at her throat.

"Woo!" Octavia shouts, locking her arms around Clarke's neck. She presses a kiss to her cheek and hugs her tightly to her chest in the sea of students surrounding them. "This is worth the clean up tomorrow. Don't you think?"

Clarke laughs. "No. Not at all."

The music is loud as it echoes through the sorority house, the speakers creating vibrations against the walls and the people around them. Raven gestures towards the kitchen and disappears into the crowd, dissolving into the sweating bodies in the hallway.

No sign of Finn. Good.

"Oh, my God. Clarke. _Clarke_." Octavia hits her arm, then squeezes it, and hits it again. "Lincoln. I see Lincoln!"

Clarke lifts her head. "Where?"

She grabs her wrist and raises it in the air, guiding it and directing it towards the tall man standing at the other side of the living room. He's dark, mysterious, and really fucking hot. Painfully good-looking.

Clarke gasps. "Oh, my God."

"What?" Raven returns with wine coolers, her hair pulled from her face. "What'd I fucking miss?"

Clarke points towards Lincoln, and Raven's jaw drops.

"You fucking bitch," she murmurs.

Octavia squeals, turning towards them. She fixes her hair, pulling it over her shoulders and ruffling the parting. She looks at them with wide eyes and plump lips, her little good cop.

"Well?" she questions, staring. "How do I look?"

"Amazing."

" _Sexy_."

Octavia laughs. She reaches forward and touches both of their cheeks, pulling her hands back to place them against her chest. Her heart is racing, Clarke can tell by the faint blush reaching her eyes.

"Go." Clarke pushes her towards him, smiling. "Good luck. And don't let your brother see you."

Octavia winks. "Right."

She surges into the crowd, the image of her brunette hair visible as she walks to him. Clarke can see the outline of her body as she approaches him, can see Lincoln smile and step towards her, his eyes shinning with interest.

Raven nudges Clarke's shoulder. "Look at our little baby," she coos, leaning her head on Clarke's. She sighs, then turns to her, pulling on her wrist. "Want to go play beer pong?"

Clarke shrugs. "Why the hell not."

Raven whistles, smacking her butt. Clarke rolls her eyes, following her into the depths of people and casting one last glance at Octavia before turning away. She feels relief fill her as she enters the second living room, much more spacious, much less student occupied.

Wick claps when he see's them. "Ladies!"

Bellamy turns at the sound of Wick's greeting, smirking when he notices Clarke stepping towards him. He tosses her the beer pong ball, and she catches it, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Don't tell me you're my partner," she mutters.

Raven pats her shoulder. "Can't wait to kick your ass."

Clarke sighs. She walks towards Bellamy as Raven stands beside Wick, pulling the ponytail tighter from the frame of her face. She stops at the edge of the table, rolling the ball between your fingers.

Bellamy grins. "You better be as good as you say you are."

Clarke flushes. She feels the heat climb her face at his words, remembering when she spoke them to him only one week earlier. She swallows thickly and lowers her eyes, shifting to face Wick and Raven's opposite end of the table.

"Stop talking," she tells him.

And then she throws the ball, landing it directly into one of Raven's red cups.

* * *

 vi.

"Cheating!" Raven yells, shaking her head. "You're fucking cheating!"

Clarke laughs, rolling onto the balls of her heels. She turns towards Bellamy and gives him a high-five, his smile matching hers as Wick takes another swig from one of their red cups.

"There's no excuses for _sucking_ , Reyes," Bellamy retorts.

Raven rolls her eyes, muttering something low in Wick's ear. An hour in, and they're tied, nine to nine. Clarke breathes deeply, lifting the beer pong ball in her palm and aiming it at Raven and Wick's last red cup.

Next shot wins. That's the plan.

"Come on, Griffin," Bellamy whispers, his breath warm on the side of her neck. "You got this."

She tilts her head towards him. "How do you know?"

He looks down at her, his curls messier and his eyes more wild. He smiles, hovering his hand above her wrist and wrapping his arm at her waist, positioning her directly in front of the cup.

"Because," he says low. "You don't like to admit defeat. Remember?"

Clarke nods, shivering against him.

She swallows thickly, trying not to think about the arm sliding from her hips. She leans her head against his head, peering her eyes at the red cup across the table, squinting at the distance and proximity.

Bellamy places his hands on her shoulders, coaxing.

"You're going to lose!" Wick calls, but his words slur in his mouth, and Raven shoves his chest, accusing him of making things worse. "Raven wants you to know you're going to lose!"

Clarke sighs. She bends forward, throwing the ball into the air.

It lands in the last cup, splashing into the final drops of alcohol.

" _Yes_!"

Bellamy shouts, throwing his hands above his head and punching them into the air. She hears Raven curse, feels the the screeching of tiles as Wick pushes the table to the side of the room in irritation.

And then Bellamy grips her shoulders, celebrating their victory, but she doesn't return it.

No. Because this is definitely not something to celebrate.

The press of his chest against her back is not victorious, and neither is the softness of his skin as it runs along her arm. This is a tragedy. A complete and utter international conflict.

And the fact that she likes it? _Craves_ it? Well, that's just unforgivable.

Clarke exhales as he steps away from her, taking a sip of his beer. He walks towards Wick as Raven approaches Clarke, her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest.

"Good game, punk," she mutters.

Clarke nods. "Totally."

"Want to go take some more shots?"

Clarke swallows thickly. She bites on her bottom lip, the echo of Bellamy's laughter sounding throughout the space between them. She sighs and shakes her head, heart and mind racing.

"There's something I got to do," she tells her, her gaze on the shadow of Bellamy's hair. "I'll find you later."

Raven opens her mouth, her eyes narrowed in confusion. Clarke avoids her glare, pushing her wine cooler into her hands and stepping away from her. She clenches her fists against her sides as she follows the sound of his laughter, loud and obnoxious and irritating.

"That was so not fair. Raven was a _horrible_ \- "

Clarke coughs, interrupting Wick's rant. He looks at her, raising a shot glass as Bellamy turns towards her. His freckles shine underneath the dim light of the disco ball, matching different colours along his face.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "We need to talk."

Bellamy raises an eyebrow, confused. She feels her eyes widen, and he sighs, nodding towards Wick and patting him on the back. He steps away from him and Clarke turns towards the crowd, Bellamy following behind her.

The music softens when she leads him up the stairs, the lyrics of Drake lowering in the distance. A wasted boy and girl make out violently on the steps, and Clarke groans, stepping over them and almost stumbling into her bedroom.

Bellamy enters shortly after, and she locks the door behind him.

He exhales loudly, standing in the centre of her room. "What is it now, Griffin?" He asks, his smirk reaching the dimples in his cheek. "Don't tell me you're sick. Or nauseous. Because that is something I don't - "

Clarke shakes her head, reaching forward and grabbing his face in her hands, silencing him with a kiss.

Bellamy's words bubble against her lips, disappearing, sinking into the pressure of her mouth. He sighs, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her closer, kissing her back with the same amount of desperation.

She releases a long breath. _Finally_.

Her fingers travel along the column of his neck, resting her hands on his chest and fisting the material of his shirt. He groans, murmuring something, and then she feels him pulling back, his eyes wild as he stares at her.

"Hold on, princess," he whispers, and his tone is low, the raspiness she craves. "What makes you think I'm still interested?"

Clarke shakes her head, the teasing in his words making her grin. She grabs the hem of her shirt and lifts it over her head, unclasping her bra and letting it fall to the ground between their feet.

Bellamy smiles, and her laughter is swallowed by his lips.

* * *

 vii.

He's not there when she wakes up. And it _pisses her off_.

Clarke curses, rolling off the mattress and staggering to her feet. She reaches for the panties and jeans laying on her floor and pulls them on, her hands shaking with each button she closes.

She remembers last night, doesn't remember when it ended, or after how many times it ended, but it did. And then when she woke up he was gone, like she was some college stranger he wanted to use and abuse.

Hump and dump. Fuck and chuck. _Whatever_.

She's the one who leaves in the morning, not _Bellamy Blake_. He's not the one who gets to slip away while she sleeps on the bed they fucked on only hours earlier, the imprint of his body still carved into the mattress.

Clarke checks her watch. 6:59 am. The bastard.

She opens her bedroom door and pads quietly down the steps, the scent of sex and alcohol mixing with the morning air. She coughs and waves her hand in front of her face, thankful for the hangover she doesn't have, for the headache she doesn't feel.

There _is_ a throbbing though, an utter pulsing that races throughout her body, but it most definitely isn't her head. Nope.

She huffs, walking past Harper and Fox's unconscious bodies on the couch. She opens the front door and enters the morning chill, her arms pulling the sweater closer around her chest.

She shakes her head. Bellamy Blake. Bellamy _Snake_.

Clarke stumbles up the porch steps, her face warm with rage as she pushes the front door open. Bodies of drunken frat boys lay silently on the floor, and she rolls her eyes, stepping over them and up the stairs.

She stands in front of Bellamy's door and knocks, twice, _roughly_. She hears movement on the other side, and she lowers her hand, glancing at the small shadow on the inside of her wrist.

A hickey.

Bellamy opens the door then, eyes blown and wide.

"You fucking - "

He steps forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her into his room. She gasps as he closes the door behind them and pushes her against it, caging her face between his hands.

She opens her mouth, ready to yell at him, but the desire in his eyes silences her protests.

He leans forward and kisses her, the taste of toothpaste and orange juice on his lips. His hair feels damp as she threads her fingers through his curls, briefly returning the sentiment before she pulls away.

Clarke shakes her head. "I thought you - "

"Nope," he whispers, "still interested." He smiles, arching an eyebrow. "You really wanted to risk my sister seeing us?"

She swallows thickly, staring at him. He's wearing the same clothes that she stripped from him only hours earlier, the buttons of his shirt sloppily placed together. She shakes her head, welcoming defeat, giving in to his hands and his lips and him.

Clarke curse, pulling him back to her.

He reacts almost immediately, wrapping his arms around his waist as her lips find his. She sighs against him, yearning, her hands fisting tightly in the material of his crinkled shirt.

Bellamy stumbles backward, guiding her into the direction of the bed. She hastily moves with him and presses her palms harder along his lower back, pulling him with her as he lowers her onto the mattress.

He nudges her jaw to the side, pressing his lips against the span of her neck.

Clarke releases a shuddering breath. "What does this mean?"

"I don't know." His words vibrate on her wet skin. "Friends with benefits?"

She shakes her head. "We're not friends," she strains.

Bellamy smiles against her neck, peppering his lips along her jaw. He reaches for her hands at her side and places them above her head, pinning them onto the mattress as his other hand slowly unzips her jeans.

"We'll keep it casual," she hisses. It's getting harder to control the want in her voice. "That means no feelings."

Bellamy nods into her shoulder. "No staying over."

His fingers unbutton the final element holding her pants, and she lifts her hips, allowing him to drag them from her waist. She kicks them off her ankles at the edge of the bed, wrapping her legs around his lower back when he returns on top of her.

"No," she sighs, squirming, "public displays of affection."

"Or nicknames," he says.

"No having sex with anyone else."

He kisses her, instantly silencing her with the press of his mouth. She whimpers, her hands traveling between their bodies to work on the buckle of his jeans. But then his lips movie to her chest, and he begins sucking on the skin, and she groans, lifting his face to hers.

"Or hickeys," she tells him, eyes wide. "No hickeys."

Bellamy blows a curl of hair from his forehead. "Are you done?"

She rolls her eyes, nodding. He breathes a sigh of relief, removing his shirt from his body and throwing it onto the floor. She traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm when he kisses her again, and his mouth tastes sweet, tastes simple.

It isn't simple, however, when half an hour later he has to cover her mouth from waking his roommates. That was actually lot harder than she thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! And there's chapter two. Hope you enjoyed it, and I can't wait to read your reactions! Xo.
> 
> ALSO, if you haven't done so yet, the 100 season 3 trailer just came out today and you should check it out! We have a nice little Bellarke hug in the trailer, which is awesome. But then there's that whole Clarke having sex with that girl that have people worried, but honestly, I'm not worried at all. So what? Sex can honestly be sex, it doesn't have to mean anything, like in this story (except in further chapters). Clarke is a hormonal woman, she has to get laid as often as the rest of us, even in apocalypses If Clarke wants to have sex with a girl, then go ahead, as long as Bellarke is endgame (and in my heart I know it is), then I don't quite care :)
> 
> OKAY, SORRY. END OF RANT. GOODNIGHT.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! Sorry it's been a while since I last posted, this winter break has been crazy busy and I've been working so many hours! But I'm back, and I hope you guys like this new update!
> 
> P.S. I saw that most of you were interested in me continuing this story instead, so I will. Thanks for letting me know. Like I said, reading your reviews really does motivate and reassure me.

i.

What's much harder than stifling her screams, even when Bellamy is doing _those_ things to her, is pretending not to think about it afterwards.

Like _really_ think about. Completely delve in it. Especially when all she can feel is the way his arms circled her hips, or the way his lips pressed against her thighs as he descended upon her body, or the -

 _Anyway_ , the hard part about it, despite everything, is pretending not to think about it as she holds Octavia's hair over her shoulder a half hour later, her head bent over the toilet as her arms hang loosely over her knees.

Yeah. Fucking awkward.

"God damn it," Octavia groans, lifting her head and leaning it on the toilet seat. "I'm never drinking again."

Clarke rolls her eyes. She's heard that before.

Raven sighs from her position on the floor, tilting her sunglasses from her eyes and placing them on the tiles. She stretches as she stands, curling her toes and fingers as she steps over Harper, who lies sleeping on the bathroom rug.

"Drink this," Raven offers, passing her the Gatorade bottle.

Octavia reaches for it and twists the cap open, Clarke leaning forward to pull her brunette hair back. She closes her eyes as the liquid smooths her throat, and Clarke breathes deeply, remembering only an hour ago, when Bellamy -

Raven presses her palm against Octavia's forehead. "Jesus, O, how much did you drink last night?"

"I don't know," she coughs, placing the bottle beside her. "I remember talking with Lincoln, and then - "

"Oh my God," Raven gasps. "You slept with him. You totally slept with him."

"I _didn't_."

Harper lifts her head from the tiles. She hiccups, squinting into the light in the room as she props herself onto her elbows. Her hair is mused with tangles, and Clarke curses under her breath when she see's a piece of gum attached to her strands.

"Liar," she spits, throat harsh and rough. "I heard moaning in one of the rooms last night."

Clarke flushes. "Wasn't me."

"Wasn't me," Raven declares.

Octavia doesn't answer, she can't, because she's throwing up into the toilet before she can respond.

Clarke sighs and pulls Octavia's hair into a pony tail, flinching as she hears her release her toxins from last night. Raven cocks an eyebrow as she turns towards her, wiping at the smudged eye liner that remains on the bridge of her nose.

"Really, Clarke?" She narrows her eyes. "You didn't bring anyone upstairs last night?"

Clarke smiles tightly. "Yup. I'm actually thinking of doing this thing called being single."

Octavia lifts her head from the toilet. "Sounds like a good idea, Griffin."

"Sounds _horrible_ ," Raven disagrees.

Except it isn't horrible. Because being single, and not having to worry about feelings and insecurities and heartbreak, that's pretty fucking cool. And sex is cool. And sex without relationships is just the best idea she's ever had.

Because, to be completely honest, who could ever fall in love with Bellamy Blake?

She can't answer the question in her head because Octavia throws up in the toilet again, and strands of her hair fall loosely into her mouth as she spits out the reminder of a terrible fucking hangover.

* * *

 

ii.

Three weeks, that's how long it's been.

That's how long she's been sleeping with Bellamy Blake.

It's crazy, and fucking _wild_ , sneaking off to meet him, and him sneaking off to meet her. They meet almost every night, and she mostly wants to blame him for being so God damn horny, but shit, does she want him.

"You sure it's all me, Griffin?" he teased her one night when she grabbed hastily at his clothes.

No. It's not all him. And it _pisses her off_.

He's annoying as hell, the way he knows how to please her and make her squirm. He knows how to use everything, and how to use it on her, and she hates that she doesn't hate how she feels around him.

Because she hates Bellamy Blake, always will, but God does she love how he -

"Clarke. Clarke!"

Clarke gasps, lifting her head from her pillow. There's footsteps, a knock at her door, and then Octavia bursts into her bedroom, her fingers combing through her hair as she stands in the doorway.

"Get up!" She hisses, her eyes widening at the sight of Clarke underneath her bed sheets. "Don't you have class soon?"

Clarke swallows thickly. "Yeah. I'll be right down."

Octavia rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath as she turns towards the hallway. She closes the door behind her, yelling for Raven to turn the coffee machine on and for Harper to start frying the eggs.

The sound of her footsteps fade down the staircase, and there's a rustle beneath the bed sheets as Bellamy pulls them over her head.

"Fuck," he rasps, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh, "that was close."

Clarke sighs. _God damn him._ She releases a whimper as Bellamy pulls away from her heat, trailing his lips upon her body, kissing her hip, her stomach, her collarbone. He hovers his mouth above her jaw, smirking.

"Must have been hard to hold in all that pleasure," he whispers.

She smiles, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Well, it wasn't that pleasurable."

It was, it always is, but she refuses to tell him that.

Bellamy chuckles, pulling away from her. He rolls onto the mattress, reaching for his pants on the ground and pulling them on. It's early in the morning, very early for a booty call, but the good thing about sleeping with Bellamy Blake is that there are no judgements, no judgements because there are no feelings.

No anything. Especially, for the most time, no _God damn clothes_.

Clarke sighs, pulling her shirt over her head. Her body aches, bones completely loose, and she stumbles towards her full-length mirror, pining her hair from her shoulders.

She gasps when she notices the purple shadows on her collarbone.

"Douche," she hisses. "I said no hickeys."

Bellamy shrugs. "And I said no feelings. So I don't care."

She rolls her eyes, releasing her hair to fall on her shoulders. She turns to him, watches as he lifts himself from the mattress, his arms, his torso, everything still exposed, which is actually really quite unfair because -

Clarke huffs, throwing his shirt at him. It's hard to function when he isn't wearing a shit.

"Could you ever, for once in your life, be a decent human being?" she challenges.

Bellamy cocks an eyebrow. "That depends. Decent on what?"

"Oh, _I don't know_. Human behaviour?" She breathes heavily and crosses her arms over her chest. "Maybe if you weren't such a dick, you'd actually be sleeping with someone who likes you."

Bellamy smirks. Fucking _smirks_. She's just insulted him and he has the audacity to not feel affected by her name-calling, by his image. She shakes her head, because this guy drives her fucking nuts, emotionally and physically and mentally.

He walks towards her, chewing on his bottom lip and - yup, there goes the physical element.

"You know, you're not really that convincing when you were just screaming my name two minutes ago."

Clarke raises her eyebrows in amusement. "I wasn't screaming. I was _whispering_."

Bellamy chuckles, and okay, the argument sounded much better in her head. He takes another step forward, and another, and one more, until he stands in front of her, all sweaty curls and freckled cheeks.

"You still won't admit it's that good," he concludes.

Clarke nods. Obviously. "It's not that good. I just . . . " she sighs, trailing her eyes down his chest, "can't find anything better at the moment."

"Right."

He grins, and then his fingers are on her jeans, skin warm and rough as he hooks through her belt loops. He pulls her closer, and she gasps, her chest rubbing against his in a dangerously close - no, dangerously good - way.

Her voice is small when she speaks. "What are you doing?"

Bellamy looks at her. She see's the desire, see's the lust, and he smooths his palms along her lower back, closing the distance between them. She exhales when she feels the heat of his breath on her neck.

"An experiment," he whispers, and she shivers.

He leans forward - without warning, no hesitation - and presses his lips against the line of her jaw. She curses, biting on her bottom lip to prevent from releasing any noises of pleasure. Any signs or indications.

He trails his mouth along the nape of her neck, and she whimpers, fucking breaking already.

Clarke closes her eyes. "I have class in ten minutes."

"Okay." He kisses her chin, her ear, her collarbone. "Then leave."

She tries to, she does, but then his hands start rubbing her thighs, and fuck. She doesn't know what experiment he's doing - whether it's " _how weak I can make Clarke Griffin_ " or " _how I can turn Clarke Griffin on by only kissing her neck_ " - but she knows she's failed.

Horribly failed.

Clarke breathes deeply, gripping his elbows as he tilts her head back to give more access to her skin.

"Bell," she whispers, urgent, and he hums against her jaw. "I can be late."

She pulls away from him, and he smiles, (that cheeky smile she hasn't seen since high school) as she pushes him onto the bed.

* * *

 

iii.

Raven passes her test in a class that she hates - philosophy, _duh_ \- and she wants to celebrate. Only it's Wednesday, and because it's Wednesday that means no going out, only staying in, because - "Hello you nimrods, American Horror Story is on tonight!"

Octavia's words. Not hers.

Raven groans. She places her wine cooler on the kitchen counter and rubs her palm against her forehead, all irritated movements and whimpers of annoyance. It's her signature look, the whole _I-should-be-wasted_ thing. Totally Raven Reyes.

"Seriously, O," she whines, crossing her legs on the surface. "What good is American Horror Story if there are no Evan Peters sex scenes this season?"

Clarke nods. "That's a good point."

Octavia rolls her eyes. She places Raven's paper near the sink - she passed with a 56% - and opens the refrigerator, reaching for two wine coolers, one for her, another one for Raven.

(She knows that look, too.)

"He'll have sex scenes," she says. "I think."

"Think?" Raven growls.

"Well if you want sex so bad why don't you do it yourself!"

Clarke laughs. Octavia looks at her, those piercing Blake eyes, and - yeah, that means she should shut up.

"Maybe I _am_ the one who got laid at the party." Raven lifts herself from the kitchen counter, sliding from the surface. She walks to Octavia and points a finger at her chest. "Or maybe it was _you_."

Octavia sighs. "I already told you, nothing happened with me and Lincoln."

"Maybe it wasn't Lincoln."

Clarke stares at them, at the teasing in Raven's eyes and the annoyance in Octavia's. She wants to say something, something like it wasn't me either, but it was her, and she sucks at lying. So yeah, she'll still shut up then.

"Maybe Harper was making it up because she was the one with some guy," Octavia whispers.

Clarke nods. "Totally an option."

"Perhaps." Raven takes a gulp of her beer. "All I know is that whoever's getting laid, I just wish it was Evan Peters."

Octavia breathes deeply. She reaches forward, taking the cooler from Raven's hands and chugging it. She almost finishes it in one swig, those piercing eyes softening into ones of want and desperation.

"Yeah," she whispers. "Me, too."

* * *

 

iv.

And, of course, since it's Wednesday, that means a _whole damn American Horror Story party_.

Octavia squeals as the opening title sequence begins, clapping her hands in the darkness of the living room. Clarke doesn't get her excitement. Like at all. There's so much blood, and skeletons with women's legs? And _are those fucking arms coming out of the mattress_?

Evan Peters name fills the screen, and Raven smiles, poking Octavia's side.

Yeah. Now she gets it.

Clarke doesn't really know what's going on. The show is completely fucked up. Like, beyond True Detective fucked up. She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest and slumping further into the cushions.

Bellamy nudges her with his shoulder. "What's wrong, Griffin? You scared?"

"No." She fidgets with the blanket laying on top of her. "I'm confused. I think."

Octavia sighs and tries - " _for the third time, Clarke!"_ \- to explain what's happening. But all Clarke can understand is her saying that Lady GaGa is the coolest murderer ever and " _Evan Peters Evan Peters Evan Peters_!"

Clarke nods, because, sure Octavia, she totally gets it now. But she doesn't. So she just watches the screen, pretending to know why people are being eaten and killed with a drill penis while Wick tries to explain to Raven who the Ten Commandments killer is.

And it goes on like this. Until, when half an hour into the show, she feels the warm span of fingers on her thigh.

 _Bellamy's_ fingers.

She gulps, swallowing the gasp of surprise at the base of her throat. Asshole. Her hand tightens on her beer as his palm slides beneath the blanket, soothing the area near the zipper of her jeans.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip, and she recognizes his smirk from the corner of her eye.

She shakes her head. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I know, right?" Octavia looks at her, and Bellamy presses his fingers harder against her. She's going to fucking kill him. "No sex scenes. Still."

Clarke hums in agreement, tightening her lips in a hard line. She's not allowing him the satisfaction, not allowing him to think that she's enjoying this. Because she isn't. At all. Especially when his finger curls around the material covering her heat - that part is just the _worst_.

Wick rolls his eyes. "As if you want a sex scene with him when he looks like that."

Octavia gasps, offended, and Clarke gasps too - you know, because she's also very offended.

Raven pinches his side. "You are so jealous!" she hisses, and Clarke is thankful for the extra noise, because Bellamy hand slips into her jeans, and it's getting harder to keep from passing out. "You wish you could work your moustache like that. His is so much more mature, and - "

" - Mature?" Wick challenges. "The fuck does that even mean?"

"It means that Evan Peters and his moustache are - "

There's a scream from the television, and Bellamy takes his opportunity, inserting a finger inside her.

Clarke chokes on her beer, slamming her hand on his wrist. She turns to him, and the glint of his smile appears in the darkness before he removes his palm from her jeans. She coughs, her eyes hardening as she rips the blanket off.

"Uhm." She stands up and - fuck, she's murdering him. She's totally going to go GaGa on him. "Anyone want popcorn?"

Raven shakes her head, poking Wick's shoulder at his most recent comment. She turns to the television screen as Octavia leans forward in her chair, watching as another person gets killed by another dismantled _thing_.

Bellamy lifts himself from the couch. "I'm grabbing a beer."

"There's beer right there," Wick says, gesturing to the case on the floor.

"I hate that beer."

"You bought that beer."

Bellamy waves him off absentmindedly. "Technicalities."

He looks at her then, and even in the darkness, even with anger clouding her vision (because, really, who gets a girl off with his sister in the room?) she can see the lust in his eyes, see the desire. She swallows thickly, and that familiar blush creeps onto her skin.

God damn him.

There's more screams echoing from the TV, and Clarke mutters under her breath, desperate. She stretches over Raven's tangled legs and pushes past Octavia leaning on the cushion, hearing Bellamy's scurried footsteps as he follows her into the kitchen.

She's pulling a bag of popcorn from the cupboard when she feels him against her, pushing her into the counter with his breath at her ear. Clarke smiles, leaning into his chest as she places the popcorn bag in the microwave, her eyes closing when his hands smooth along her hips.

She presses the timer. "We have two minutes."

Bellamy turns her around and pins her against the surface. She gasps, his fingers cool on her skin as he wraps them around her thighs, lifting her onto the counter. Her head rests against the microwave, the countdown beginning, and he smirks in his space between her legs.

"Trust me, Griffin." He kisses her cheek, her jaw. "This won't take long."

He kisses her then, urgent, on the lips. She whimpers, barely able to return the pressure before he descends his mouth on her neck, then her chest, traveling a trail of kisses down the material covering her stomach.

Clarke presses her lips together, her legs wrapping around his waist as he unzips her jeans, pulling them, along with her panties, down to her ankles. He pulls her to the edge of the counter and drops to his knees in front of her and -

Oh. _Oh_.

She opens her mouth in a silent moan, her body erupting into painfully pleasurable flames. She ruffles her hands in his hair as he licks further into her, tilting her head back, trying very - _very_ \- hard not to scream.

The popcorn begins to pop then. One minute and nine seconds left.

"Griffin!" Octavia's concerned voice echoes from the living room. "You're missing the end!"

Clarke swallows the tension in her throat. "Trust me. I'm not!"

And the end doesn't take much longer, because only moments later, she's jerking her hips into his mouth, sloppy and urgent as the waves of pleasure engulfs her. She ends with a breathy sigh, her eyes closed tight and strands of hair attached to her sweaty forehead.

She feels Bellamy pull away, his smirk pressing against her skin as he lifts himself from his knees.

"You," she breathes, opening her eyes. "Are still an asshole."

"Technicalities."

She rolls her eyes, smiling as he kisses her, and she tastes herself on her lips. Tastes her and ting of beer and chicken burgers. She presses her heels into his lower back, pulling him into her and deepening the kiss. He sighs, tilting her head back as she slides a hand between them to loosen his belt.

There's a ringing noise, a final pop, and the microwave timer sets off.

Bellamy groans. Her fingers pause on the rim of his jeans, and she pecks his lips before pulling her pants back to her waist. She leans forward and opens the microwave door, the scent of popcorn replacing that other, much less appropriate smell.

"Don't worry," she whispers as he buries his face in her neck. "I'll return the favour."

He nods. "I know."

Clarke pulls back and narrows her eyes. "You seem confident in that."

Bellamy grins. "I am," he murmurs. His fingers trace patterns on her thighs - limbs still weak from those things he did with his mouth - and she shivers at the memory. "Just like I'm confident that either one of our friends are going to walk in here in the next thirty seconds."

She sighs. Her legs drop from his hips, and he frowns when she pushes him away from her, allowing her the space to jump from the counter. He's still close to her, and thank _fucking God_ , because she's pretty sure she would collapse if he wasn't.

She looks up at him and presses a finger to his chest. "Tonight," she promises.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. "You'll keep your window open?"

"Like always."

There's more screaming from the living room, and Octavia calls their names again, along with Wick, who threatens to leave if Bellamy doesn't come interrupt this " _fucked up show that doesn't make me scared no matter what Raven says_."

Clarke laughs as she steps away from him, reaching for the popcorn bag. She looks at Bellamy, fixes the part of his hair that looks sexified, and he returns the favour, a certain routine they have become accustomed to.

She nods when she's finished analyzing him, and he winks at her before walking towards the living room. She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest as she watches him, and -

"Dammit, Blake," she whispers, and he turns towards her in confusion. "Don't forget your beer."

* * *

 

v.

Clarke doesn't remember much about what happened after she returned to the living room, but all she knows is that Octavia was crying about some character who died, and Raven was rolling her eyes about something Wick said.

Like she said. She doesn't remember, doesn't really _care_. She was too busy trying not to jump Bellamy in front of the entire damn house.

She sighs as she leans against the kitchen counter. It's almost midnight and Bellamy has already left, but she can't stop thinking about what will happen when he comes back as much as she can't stop thinking about what recently happened on the counter space Raven is sitting on.

"I'm pissed," Octavia hisses as she places the plates in the dishwasher. "Tristan was one of my favourite characters."

Raven rolls her shoulders. "Everybody's gotta go at some point."

Octavia nods, frowning, muttering that at least it wasn't Evan Peters. She settles the last dish between the racks of the dishwasher before closing it, stretching her arms behind her head as a yawn escapes her lips.

"Okay," she says. "I'm off to bed."

"Already?"

Octavia shrugs. "I'm tired."

"What?" Raven wiggles her eyebrows, smirking. "From all that sex you and Lincoln have been having?"

Octavia groans, waving her off. She whispers a small goodnight under her breath, clearly done with the conversation before it even started. Raven watches her go with a satisfied smile.

"She totally slept with him," she decides.

"Sh," Clarke hushes her. She waits until she hears her bedroom door close before continuing. "Maybe he did something to piss her off."

" _Or_. Maybe she's going to go meet right now."

Clarke scoffs. That's crazy. Right? It's highly unlikely a person would go behind their friends knowledge and pretend they're tired so they can go to their room to sleep with some guy after watching an hour of television horror porn and having him go down on her in their shared kitchen. Completely wild.

Clarke clears her throat. "What? He's going to sneak through her window or something?"

Raven shrugs. "It's not impossible," she says.

"Well, I wouldn't know."

(She totally knows).

* * *

 

vi.

She taps her pencil against her textbook, the terms and definitions of World War II scrambling her notes. _Hitler, Treaty of Versailles, Pearl Harbour_ . . . her mind hurts. How many fucking treaties exist?

Clarke groans, dropping her forehead onto her mattress. It's midnight, and the minutes have been passing excruciatingly slow since she bid goodnight to Raven and came to her room. Waiting for him. Taking out her homework to stop thinking about him.

Trying - failing, mostly - to occupy her mind to distract from the adrenaline rushing through her.

So she decided to read about Hitler. Classy, Clarke. Very classy.

There's a soft knock on her bedroom window, and she smirks, pushing the textbooks onto the ground. Rolling off her mattress, she walks to window, unlocking the bolt and pushing it open.

Bellamy crawls through, his hair damp with rain.

"Anyone see you?" she asks, leaning forward to close the window. She turns to him as he strips his jacket off, revealing the wet shirt that clings to his body, all exposed muscles and skin.

Damn it. As if she couldn't be any more turned on.

"Except for my brother Jesus Christ," he says, and his voice is raspy, doing wonders, "then no."

Clarke shakes her head. "Are you trying to make a joke?"

"Never."

She rolls her eyes, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. They don't waste any time when they're together, don't spend it asking how their day was or how they're feeling or - in this case, if he's cold from the rain.

They made a deal. Just sex. No emotions. Which is working fine, because he pulls her closer in understanding, pressing his lips to hers with a soft sigh. She kisses him desperately, her hands threading through his damp hair, and the friction between them is irreversible, not even a damn storm can prevent it.

She whimpers as he begins to step towards the bed, and his shoes are off before her mouth descends to his throat.

"Wait." She pulls away, reaching for the hem of his shirt. "Clothes. Now."

He raises an eyebrow. "Bossy."

"Shut up," she hisses. She peels the material from his body, trying not to react to his exposed chest as she throws the shirt onto her chair. "I don't want my bed wet."

"You know, you don't really need an excuse to get me naked."

Clarke smiles tightly. "Such a gentleman."

He chuckles, and she cuts him short by returning to him, her arms loose around his shoulders as they kiss. It's slow, burning, and she exhales as he cradles the back of her head, his other arm strong across her back as he guides them to her bed. The back of her legs hit the mattress, and she drops onto it, pulling Bellamy on top of her.

He hovers above her, his body pushing her into the cushion. She mewls at the addition pressure his weight offers, locking her ankles on his lower back and bringing him close, eliminating any distance between them.

Clarke sighs, trailing a hand between them as she begins to unbuckle his pants.

There's a moan, loud and frenzied. She opens her eyes and pulls away from him, matching his confused gaze as he looks down at her. His lips are red, swollen, and he arches an eyebrow.

"Was that you?"

She shakes her head. "No."

There's another moan, and Clarke realizes it's coming from a bedroom upstairs. Either coming from Harper's, or Raven's, or -

 _Oh_.

"Uhm." She presses her lips against his, quick, before pulling away. "Give me two seconds."

"Clarke."

She stares at him. "Trust me. I don't think you'll want to see this."

He looks at her in confusion, and she places her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back. He groans, allowing her to roll underneath her and off of the bed. He falls onto the mattress with a light thud.

Clarke raises her fingers. "Two seconds."

She turns to the bedroom door, pulling it closed behind her as she steps into the hallway. The moaning has stopped, and she leans against the wall, her eyes narrowed and calculating.

A door opens across the room, and Octavia walks out, her expression matching.

She looks at her. "Did you hear that, too?"

Clarke points to her. "I thought it was _you_."

Octavia rolls her eyes, and she looks tired. Too tired to be moaning and lying about it. She crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head, strands of hair falling loose from her ponytail.

"I told you I'm not sleeping with Lincoln," she whispers.

Clarke frowns. "Then who - "

There's a creaking of floorboards, and another bedroom door opens - Raven's bedroom door. Clarke turns to it, expecting to see Raven's teasing expression, to see her further accusing Octavia, or Clarke, pleading for details on their sexual conquest -

Wick stares at them, eyes wide as he stands in Raven's doorframe.

"Hey."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the third chapter! Hope you guys enjoyed it, but better yet, I hope you guys enjoy the season three premiere of the 100 tonight! Apparently Bellamy and Clarke don't reunite until episode two, but even better, since we had to wait five episodes last season.
> 
> ALSO, I am about to begin a rant on recent spoilers, so if you don't want to see spoilers, or hear me about to cry, then leave this page now! and have a fabolous day
> 
> okay, so, to those of you who are still reading, I'm assuming you have seen the season 3 finale on set pictures by now. If you haven't, there are pictures of Clarke and Lexa surfing the web as they are currently filming in Vancouver. In the pictures, they are hugging, and Clarke is touching Lexa's face. To me, this is a huge disappointment. I try very hard to be positive about Bellarke's future on the show, but these pictures have really upset me. I just find it crazy that majority of this fandom have been shipping Bellamy and Clarke since the series premiere, and, honestly, have made it more popular by constantly blogging about them, etc. For Jason to know this, and know how passionate Bellarke shippers have been since season 1, yet still throw Clarke and Lexa as a relationship instead, kind of saddens me. I know this show isn't for the fans, but honestly, I've been wishing for Bellarke for over a year, and if it doesn't happen, I will be truly disappointed.
> 
> Now, we don't know the context of this scene yet, so we can still have hope, but I still got a little upset when I saw the pictures. Hopefully Bellarke will come out victorious by the series end, and if not, well, at least we have fanfics I guess! I just want you guys to keep hope, but also want to warn you about what may be coming this season (possibly Clexa, unfortunately) We must stick together during times like these, because seriously, it actually does hurt seeing Clarke with someone else!
> 
> OKAY. RANT OVER. UNTIL NEXT TIME.
> 
> XOXO


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's writers block has been cured?! That's right fam, I'm back with a new chapter of Friends (With Benefits). So sorry for the delay, but seriously, I could not figure out where I wanted to take this story. But I think I found my muse. Hope you enjoy it, xoxo.

i.

Clarke stands in the centre of the room, tapping her fingers along the length of her arms. Octavia sways beside her, shuffling on her feet, and -

_This is fucking weird._

She stares at Raven as she sits on the edge of her bed, her hair disheveled and her bra straps loose on her shoulders. Wick sits beside her, the same shirtless Wick that Clarke and Octavia found trying to sneak off only a couple minutes ago, the same Wick that Raven has been idly staring at since they pushed him back inside the bedroom, the same Wick that Raven has stated multiple times _how much she hates him_.

Clarke exhales. _So fucking weird_.

Octavia narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. She's pissed. Irritated. And so is Clarke, because - God damn it. She was just about to get pleasantly and relentlessly screwed, but now she's in Raven's bedroom trying to figure out what the fuck is -

"So," Octavia says, words cold.

Raven pursues her lips. "So."

They stare at each other, unwavering, and Clarke groans impatiently.

" _So_!" she hisses, because seriously, there's a half naked Bellamy Blake in her bed that she needs to take care of. "You guys a thing?"

Raven taps a finger to her chin as she crosses her legs on the mattress, pulling the sheets tighter around her half-naked body. She glances at Wick, who literally just looks really fucking confused, and God damn _this is so fucking weird_.

"I don't know," Wick mumbles, shrugging. "We haven't talked about it. Have we?"

Raven narrows her eyes. "I'm not one for talking."

Wick grins and pulls a bra strap from her shoulder. "Yeah," he murmurs, and then he's leaning towards her, smiling. "We don't talk a lot . . . "

Raven bites on her bottom lip, turning to him. Her eyes drop to his mouth, and she moves closer to him, loosening the grip on the bedsheets as he touches his hand to her knee. She shifts closer, and closer and closer and - seriously, Clarke can't look away, because this is so fucking weird.

And apparently Octavia thinks the same thing, because she scoffs, stretching her hand between them and snapping her fingers. Raven winces, annoyed, and Wick exhales deeply as he pulls away from her.

"What do you mean you don't talk?" Octavia exclaims. "You guys have to have _the talk!_ It's like - a thing."

Wick tilts his head. "The talk?"

She nods eagerly, placing her hands on her hips. "You know, the talk you have before casual sex," she tells him. "The one where you set some rules, tell each what you want and what you don't want."

Raven rolls her eyes. "We already had the talk."

"It doesn't count if it was during sex."

"Yes, it does," Clarke interjects.

Octavia narrows her eyes at her, and Clarke smiles weakly, bowing her head. This is so stupid. The _talk_. Her and Bellamy had the talk, didn't they? Yeah - they did. Right before he fucked her on his bed the morning after her sorority party. It was simple, and easy - and it still counts. _Totally_ counts.

Octavia shakes her head. "No. It doesn't."

"It _does_ ," Raven insists.

"Okay then." Octavia stares at her, crossing her arms over her chest. Bad cop time. "What'd you guys talk about?"

Raven scoffs, mumbling curses as she glances at Wick. He looks at her, confused, or maybe even a little terrified - Clarke can't tell. She doesn't recognize him without his shit eating grin.

Octavia leans forward, raising an eyebrow challenge. "Come on. If it was so easy to talk about during sex, it must still be true. Right?"

Raven glares at her, eyes wide and heated as she clutches the bedsheets tighter over her body. It's silent for a moment, and then Wick breathes deeply, the muscles in his chest tightening. He turns to her, determined, but she won't even look at him, won't even give him a teasing grin.

He sighs. "Okay. Raven." He hesitates, and Octavia nods at him in encouragement. "I feel like you - "

Raven surges forward, the bed sheet slipping from her shoulders as she reaches for him. She kisses him, and he responds almost immediately, as if he were expecting it, maybe _hoping_ for it, and he runs his hands through her hair as she climbs into his lap.

Octavia makes a gagging noise beside her, but Clarke can't stop watching. _This is so fucking weird_.

But then Wick pulls at the material of Raven's bra, and then Clarke is stumbling backwards, covering her eyes; Octavia muttering about not being able to sleep without any nightmares as she pushes her into the hallway and away from their moans.

* * *

 

ii.

"Raven and _Wick_? Are you serious?"

Clarke nods. She paces along the length of her bedroom, her fingers pulling on loose strands of her hair. Bellamy sits on the edge of the mattress in front of her, the heat in his eyes replaced with confusion and - of course, because he's an _idiot_ , something like fucking pride.

"Serious," she tells him. "Watched it with my own eyes. I'm a witness."

He shakes his head. "Raven and Wick."

"Raven and _Wick_."

Bellamy exhales, running a tired hand through his untamed curls. She glances at him, and God damn him for not putting a shirt back on; because it's seriously hard to concentrate when he's in her room, on her _bed_ , hair still damp from the rain and looking like the poster boy for a Calvin Klein ad.

"The bastard never told me," he mutters, but she can hear the hint of awe in his voice.

Clarke rolls her eyes. "Yeah. You seem real upset about it."

He looks up at her, raising an eyebrow in the same knowing look Octavia just gave only minutes before. He leans forward, his elbows settling on the ends of his knees, and - seriously, could the man put a fucking shirt on?

"As if you're not proud of Raven," he challenges.

Clarke shrugs. "For getting laid? Absolutely. For getting laid by _Wick_?" She exhales deeply, squinting at the ceiling. "Debatable."

"Wick's capable."

She widens her eyes in exasperation. "Clearly. But - " She paces again, pulling on her hair, looking at anything but Bellamy's chiseled chest. "Do they even like each other? Do they even like sleeping together?" She turns to him. "Do _we even like_ sleeping together?"

Bellamy sneers. "Cute."

Clarke huffs, untwisting her strands from a knotted braid and shuffling to the bed. She drops onto the mattress beside him, her bare arm brushing against his as she drums her fingers along her knees.

"Really, though. I don't even think they know what they are," she tells him; and it bothers her, she doesn't know why but it _does_. "Octavia was trying to convince them to have the talk."

"The talk?"

She nods. "You know, the whole ' _what we are_ ' thing."

Bellamy looks at her, his gaze narrow and steady. His eyes are hard, fixed and - oh, she knows this expression. Seen it in the moments before his football games in high school, see's it every time he glances at her bare breasts. Concentration.

He tilts his head. "Sounds horrible."

Clarke sighs deeply, frowning. "I know," she mumbles, and it's silent for a moment. A brief moment when they aren't yelling or bickering or screwing. She glances at him. "We had the talk, right?"

He presses his lips together. "Right," he draws out. "No feelings. Just sex. That's our thing."

"Exactly our thing."

"So we shouldn't have the talk," he says, but it's more of a question; he seems confused. _She's_ confused.

Clarke huffs. "No?" She looks at him, the uncertainty in his eyes, and she doesn't like it. "No. No, we shouldn't have the talk," she decides. "Honestly, it would just complicate things."

"Agreed."

She breathes in relief, because he agrees, and she agrees and Raven agrees and Wick just does what everyone else does so basically he agrees, too. They all fucking agree that the talk is pointless, unnecessary, constantly in the way of giving people what they actually want.

She glances at Bellamy, the tightness in his muscles. She knows what she wants.

Swallowing thickly, her fingers creating a rhythmic beat on her thigh. Bellamy's eyes follow her movement, trailing along the expanse of her skin as she pulses against it. She watches the way his lips twitch, faltering, and when he looks up at her again, his gaze is dark and hungry.

"So."

Clarke chews on her bottom lip. "So."

"If we don't talk," he murmurs, and his eyes drop to her mouth, "then what should we do?"

She taps a finger against her chin. "I don't know," she whispers, and she leans into him, crawling onto his lap and straddling his hips. "Do you, maybe" - she presses a kiss against his jaw, "possibly" - lips skimming his cheek, "want to have sex?"

Bellamy closes his eyes, his hands strong on her waist. He brushes his nose along her collarbone, breathing in, and she shivers, because he knows how vulnerable she is to that, how much it makes her squirm.

And that's why _she hates him right now_ , because he pulls back, a teasing glint in his gaze. "Debatable," he tells her, and she rolls her eyes, smiling at the growl that rumbles from his chest when she pushes him onto the bed, finally weaving her fingers through his damp curls.

* * *

 

iii.

Clarke rolls off her mattress, her hair plastered to her cheeks and her bra loose on her shoulders. She yawns, stretching, because God damn it some parts of her are still numb from last night; Bellamy's touch staining her skin and her memories.

She breathes deeply and cranes her neck, releasing a knot of tension from her muscles. She's so sore, and she hates him for making her love it - how stiff she feels in the morning, how good she feels the night before. It's a curse; a curse that she doesn't mind having and knows he doesn't mind giving.

But still. It's Bellamy. And she wants to punch that stupid smug smile off his face every time she gasps his name. _Bellamy_.

Clarke shakes her head, fixing her loose bra and pulling her thrown shirt over her head. She stumbles out of her room and down the stairs, and - God, something smells good. Is that fucking pancakes? She smiles, entering the kitchen and -

Oh. Oh, come on. She grunts, crossing her arms over her chest as Wick lifts Raven onto the kitchen counter, his lips hard and rough on hers. Raven wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him close, her heels pressing into the lower part of his back.

"God damn it, guys!" Clarke exclaims, and Raven tightens her thighs around him. "Control yourselves!"

They don't even flinch, don't even _move_ ; kissing each other more deeply.

Harper sighs from the couch in the living room. "Don't bother," she tells her, flipping through a page of the magazine she's reading. "Unless there's a sale at Best Buy, Raven won't peel her lips from the dude."

Clarke exhales. Perfect; just _perfect_. She steps into the kitchen, cringing at the noises Wick and Raven make as she approaches them. Wick stands at the edge of the island, and she squeezes behind his body, reaching forward to grab a coffee mug from the cupboard.

There's more whimpering, and sighing, and then Octavia walks into the kitchen, slamming a hand against her forehead.

"My eyes!" she cries out.

Raven groans, her cheeks flushed as she pushes Wick away from her. He stumbles into Clarke, flattening her against the counter.

"My God," Raven hisses. "What's it take to get a little privacy around here?"

Clarke squirms from Wick's weight, clutching the mug in her grasp. She just wanted _some damn coffee._

"Oh, I don't know," Octavia mutters, stepping forward with her arms crossed over her chest. She pulls Clarke free from the space between the counter, and Wick smiles apologetically. "Maybe you're fucking _bedroom_."

Harper raises her cup. "I second that idea."

Wick chuckles, ruffling a hand through his untamed hair. He bends to grab the bag on the ground beside him, pulling it over his shoulder and pressing a quick kiss to Raven's cheek, his skin tinted red.

"Would love to hear more of your ideas, gang," he says, turning to them. "But I've got to get to class."

Raven rests a hand to his chest. "And miss more opportunities to annoy my roommates? Shame."

Octavia mutters a curse, and Wick grins, flicking her chin before walking towards the door. His blonde waves are still tangled from Raven's hands, and he smooths it down before leaving the room, exposing a pattern of hickeys on the side of his neck.

Clarke's eyes widen, and she turns to Octavia, watching as her lips twitch.

"So," Raven smirks, hopping down from the kitchen counter. "Anyone want pancakes?"

" _Yes_ ," Clarke groans.

Octavia narrows her eyes. "Let me guess, Wick made them."

"Obviously. As if I know how to bake without burning the damn house down."

Clarke grins, shaking her head. She sits on one of the stools at the island, watching eagerly as Raven grabs three plates from the cupboards, a pile of pancakes on the larger one. She scoots closer to the counter, elbows on the surface.

"Making breakfast, huh?" Octavia coos, raising an eyebrow. "That sure sounds like a boyfriend's job."

Raven holds up a finger. "Careful, O. Way too early for one of your parenting talks."

"I do not parent you!"

Clarke pursues her lips. "You do. It's cute, though." Octavia rolls her eyes, and Clarke turns to Raven, reaching for a pancake. "But, to be fair, if you guys are willing to make out in front of the entire damn house, then why did you even keep it a secret in the first place?"

Raven shrugs. "Because it's Wick," she says, and see, Clarke was right. _Suck it, Blake_. "Plus, it was also a lot hotter sneaking around."

Clarke nods, tightening her lips together. "Understandable."

"But do you like him?" Octavia presses.

"I like the things he does to me. Does that count?"

Clarke tilts her head, tapping a finger against her chin. "For casual sex?" she wonders, and she thinks of Bellamy, thinks of that stupid smug face and those stupid strong hands. "It totally counts."

Raven exhales deeply, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glinting as she takes the last pancake from the plate. Clarke pouts, crossing her arms, and Octavia pats her knee in comfort.

She takes a bite, chewing, gaze transfixed on a memory. "I love casual sex."

* * *

 

iv.

Bellamy curses, his hips stilling against hers in a silent release. He exhales into the crook of her neck, breath shallow and rapid, and she unwraps her legs from around his waist; allowing him to roll off her.

He falls onto the mattress with a light thud, his curls damp with sweat and the wildness of Clarke's hands.

She blinks rapidly, clutching the sheets to her bare chest. It's quiet; they always have to be quiet with Finn's room just down the hall, and Lincoln's room across from it. She's almost glad; afraid of how loud she'd be if she was given the chance.

Clarke sighs, turning to him. His eyes are closed, contempt, and she raises her hand, slapping it against his open palm.

Bellamy looks at her, his lips twitching with amusement. "That was nice team work," she tells him.

He nods in agreement. "I know. We get good results."

"We really do."

He smirks, smug, and she grips the sheets around her chest, rolling onto her hip to face him. He watches her, his dark eyes following the trial of bite marks near her left ear, a pattern she _specifically_ told him not to make.

Clarke props herself onto her elbow, weaving her fingers through her hair. "You know what I could go for right now?"

"Round three?"

" _Blake_ ," she hisses, shoving him. "No. A hamburger."

Bellamy turns towards her. "Oh. Keep going."

She breathes deeply, tapping her finger against her chin. "A big, juicy hamburger with a lot of grease and ketchup. McDonald's maybe - or Wendy's. I don't know," she mutters, "as long as it comes with large fries."

He nods. "And a milkshake?"

"Oh, yes," she whispers, and her tongue tastes sweet with the thought. "And a milkshake."

"That sounds incredible," he tells her.

"I know."

"My mouth is watering."

"I _know_. That's because you're staring at my boobs, genius."

Bellamy narrows his eyes, glancing from her chest. "Sorry. They're nice boobs. It's distracting."

Clarke shakes her head, shifting closer to him on the mattress. His gaze is dark, eager, and she presses herself against him, smirking at the tension that expands on his features.

"Oh. So it's my fault you can't stop staring at them?" she teases.

"Completely your fault," he murmurs, and it's almost strained, his voice a mere rasp. "They're a good view. Juicy."

"Juicy?" she laughs, and he shivers. "What grade are you in?"

He skims his nose along her cheekbone. "You said it first."

Clarke hums, slipping the sheets from her shoulders and rubbing her bare chest against his. He groans, his hands resting on her waist as she climbs on top of him, straddling his hips.

"I know," she whispers, leaning forward to press her lips at his ear. "And I'm weirdly turned on by it."

He looks at her. "You are?"

"Shut up."

She kisses him, hard, sure to dismiss the potential retort that rises on his lips. He exhales against her, and her fingers curl into the hair that covers the nape of his neck, tugging him closer, deeper, allowing him entrance when he coaxes her tongue with his own.

He groans into her mouth, and - oh yeah. _Juicy_.

Bellamy grips her waist, and she squeals in amusement when he rolls them over, pinning her into the mattress. He presses his body against hers, and she mewls at the added pressure, folding her legs along his -

 _Oh_. "Shit," she breathes.

He pulls away from her. "What is it?"

She groans, pushing at his chest and sliding to the edge of the mattress. "I completely forgot," she hisses, lifting herself from the bed. "We're meeting everyone at the bar soon and - fuck, _I'm not even clothed._ "

"You're acting as if that's a bad thing."

"It is a bad thing." She shakes her head, searching for her thrown clothes on the floor. "Unless you want to show up like this, looking completely fucked and having to explain to our friends why."

Bellamy shrugs. "Unless I don't show up at all. See? Problem solved."

"You're coming," she scoffs. "It's the last weekend before we study our asses off for midterms."

He exhales, shifting to the end of the bed. He's silent, and she knows what that means, knows that it means he agrees with her but he won't ever admit it vocally. It's a small victory, a typical Blake quality, and she grins, walking towards him and smoothing the sexified curls in his hair.

He looks up at her. "It's a bar. How are you even getting in?"

"I'm not sure if you've heard of this, but there's these things called fake IDs. And - " she gestures towards her chest, cupping her breasts over her blue shirt, "oh, yeah, these also help."

"I would think so."

She runs a finger across his jaw. "So I guess I'm just going to have to wear a super low cut top, maybe even no bra or - "

" _Clarke_ ," he groans, and he closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against her stomach. "Have mercy."

Clarke smiles, patting his back sympathetically.

"See? Works every time."

* * *

 

v.

Clarke grins as the bartender pours her a vodka cranberry, the red liquid reflecting the colour of her exposed top. She leans over the counter, watching him, and he looks up from the ID she's given him, his eyes transfixed on her chest.

She bites on her bottom lip. "Must get a lot of underaged people, huh?"

The bartender clears his throat, glancing at her. "You bet," he murmurs, and he slides the vodka cranberries in front of her. "There you are Penelope Jackson, three vodka cranberries."

She reaches forward to grab the ID from his grasp, shoving it into her jean pocket. He stares at her, smirking, and she grabs the glasses from the counter; winking at him before walking towards her crowded table.

Raven and Octavia clap when they see her. Bellamy shakes his head.

Clarke laughs, setting the drinks on the surface. "Sisters, I present to you the best perk of being a girl."

Raven shifts from Wick's lap, bumping her shoulder against Clarke's as she snags one of the glasses. She takes a sip, grinning through the cup, her teeth stained with the red liquid.

"That's some good shit, Jackson," she tells her. "How much do we owe you?"

"Nothing. They were free."

Raven hovers her hand over her heart. "That's my girl."

Clarke chuckles, and she climbs onto the stool beside Bellamy, arching her eyebrows at his expression. He narrows his gaze at her, at the deep cut of her shirt, and he shakes his head in amusement.

"Works every time, huh?" he teases.

"Oh, yeah. Every time."

Octavia reaches over him and pats her arm roughly. "Clarke. _Oh_ , Clarke. Cute guy. To your left."

Clarke blinks, turning in the direction of Octavia's gesture. Her eyes squint into the crowd of people, but she see's him - brown hair, soft brown eyes. A couple years older maybe. Nice hands. Even nicer arms.

"He _is_ cute," she declares.

"So then what the hell are you still doing here? Go and talk to him."

Bellamy scoffs. "Please. She can't take that guy home."

Clarke huffs, glancing at him. She crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts in the position she knows will make his mouth water and his head fuzzy. But he doesn't even look at them, not even a peak; his glare hard on the man in the corner.

She pursues her lips. "And why's that?"

"Because - Jesus, Clarke. Look at him. Buttoned up shirt, long sleeves," he gestures towards him, almost in disappointment. "He's drinking water for crying out loud. Looks like he lives in a church."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Bellamy smirks at her. "That means he's into good girls."

"I can be a good girl," she presses.

Octavia snorts, laughing, and Clarke stares at her. She smiles weakly and bows her head.

Clarke exhales deeply, her lips lightening. She reaches for her glass on the table and brings it towards her mouth, swallowing the drink in one gulp. She sets it back on the table and shifts from the stool, stumbling onto the ground.

Bellamy looks at her. "Where are you going?"

She smiles tightly. "To go talk to him," she tells him, and there's a small fear in his eyes, because - oh yeah, he's totally going to pay for this later. "I have some sins I'd like to confess."

He narrows his gaze, and she turns from the table, Raven smacking her ass as she walks towards the bar. Brown-haired boy isn't looking at her, which is perfect, because she adjusts her top; waiting for the exact moment to approach him, the moment that -

There's a curse, and she nudges into him, gasping in feign surprise as his water spills down her shirt.

"Oh, my God," brown-haired boy swears, shaking his head in disbelief. " _Shit_. I'm so sorry."

Clarke laughs. "That's alright. Do you have a napkin?"

"Yeah. _Yeah_. Damn it - here."

He extends a hand towards her, a pile of napkins in his palm, and she smiles, taking them from him. She presses them against her shirt, dabbing them around the blotches of water that stain the top, melting into her skin.

She throws a damp napkin on the counter and reaches for another one, smiling when she notices his distracted gaze.

Brown-haired boy clears his throat. "At least it's just water," he says, and his voice seems small. Tight. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she replies, and then she smiles that wide-eyed grin; the winning tactic. "I'm Clarke, by the way. How come I've never seen you here before?"

* * *

 

vi.

His name is Macallan. 23-years-old. Just had a bad break up with his long-time girlfriend about a week ago, and "that's why I'm here, having no idea what I'm doing because I haven't been to a bar since before we dated."

He's cute, and kind of corny, but also one of the most boring people she's ever spoken to. He talks in rushes, and all she hears is "cheated", and "Alabama," and - wait for it - even "church." It's odd, and it's why her eyes seem to travel throughout the room during their conversation, her ears listening but her mind not registering because - now he's talking about the bible for fuck's sake.

Clarke sighs in annoyance, because Bellamy was right, and she hates him even more for it. She searches the room for him, for his smug smile that she wants to punch and spit on. There's a patch of curly hair in the crowd, and she finally spots him, leaning against the bar and talking to a familiar girl with long legs.

Oh. Oh, _fuck no._

Clarke raises a finger to Macallan's lips. "Excuse me."

He looks at her, confused, and she grins apologetically before turning away from him. He says something, but she doesn't hear it, her mind too focused on brainstorming multiple ways of murdering Blake in front of the entire damn bar to care.

She slides through the crowds of people towards him, and he looks at her when she approaches, frowning.

Clarke smiles tightly at him, turning to the girl in front of them. "Roma!" she hisses, and she doesn't even try to remove the hatred from her tone. "Wow, so weird seeing you here."

Roma stares at her, the heat in her glare rising. She looks the same from the last time she saw her, except there's no bruises on her face, and, unfortunately, Clarke's fists aren't in her hair and tugging her head onto Bellamy's carpet.

Roma sneers, seeming to think the same thing. "I know. I thought you were treating your alcohol problem."

"And I thought you were treating your _skank_ problem."

Bellamy laughs, a small chuckle, and Clarke narrows her eyes at him.

Roma presses her lips together. "Anyways," she turns to Bellamy and rests a hand on his shoulder. Clarke stares at her painted fingernails. "Let me know when you have the answers, and then give me a call."

"Sure," he says.

Roma grins, lingering her palm on his skin before trailing it off. She nods at him, turning towards the crowd and pushing past Clarke's arm as she walks towards the bar. Clarke blinks, the anger rising inside her, and she looks at Bellamy.

He arches an eyebrow. "What?"

She curses. What? He just spoke to the woman who her boyfriend cheated on her with and all he says is what? She glances around the room, making sure of Octavia and Raven's absence before reaching forward and curling a fist into his shirt, pulling him from the stool. She drags him through the crowd and into the empty hallway, bringing him inside an empty washroom.

Clarke closes the door behind them and pushes him against the wood.

"Roma?" she growls, her fists hard on his chest. " _Are you serious_?"

Bellamy tilts his head. "What? You jealous?"

"Not even close."

"Then what's the problem?" he inquires.

Clarke scoffs. She clenches the material of his shirt between her fingers, wrinkling them, releasing her irritation in the shambles. Her nose scrunches, and she narrows her eyes at the ease in his expression.

"The problem?" she exclaims. "I _hate_ her."

"And?" he presses.

Her glare hardens. "And that means you can't be nice to her, or anything to her."

Bellamy exhales deeply. He places his palms on her wrists, pulling them from his shirt and by her sides. She stares at him, at the scratches on the cotton and the freckles that cover the expanse of his tightened jaw.

"I'm sorry, Griffin, but that would mean I would have to consider your feelings."

Clarke's eyes widen, and she lifts her arm, punching him across the shoulder.

"Jesus, Clarke!" he grunts, rubbing the skin above his arm. "You've got anger issues."

She ignores him. "You're such a fucking dick," she hisses, shoving him back against the door. The wood shakes with the force. "She's the worst person in the world. My boyfriend _cheated on me with her_. You were going to try to sleep with her?"

Bellamy scoffs, blocking another of her oncoming punches. "Relax, tiny tank. She asked me what notes we had to read for our psychology midterm."

"Bullshit. That's the easiest line in the book."

He shakes his head, muttering curses as he glances at the ceiling. His freckles are dull in the dimness of the washroom, and she forgets where they are for a moment, forgets about the music playing in the bar; her ears ringing with rage.

"Right. Easiest line in the - _ow, stop hitting me,_ " he grumbles, pinning her arms down. "So it's not okay if someone wants to sleep with _me_ , but it's okay if _you_ want to sleep with someone."

"What are you talking about?"

He looks at her. "That Jesus preacher. Remember him?"

"We were just talking," she tells him.

"Sure. About what positions the bible teaches you?"

Clarke points her finger into his chest. "No," she hisses, and her tone is rough. "About thanking God for getting me away from you, you sadistic, assho - "

Her words become swallowed by Bellamy's lips, his mouth covering hers and eliminating the insults from her mind. She whimpers at the pressure of his kiss, how it causes her to stumble, and she tightens her hands around his shirt, pushing him away.

"Wait!" she gasps, fingers hard on his arms. "I'm pissed at you."

Bellamy's jaw clenches. "I'm pissed at you, too."

Clarke stares at him, and - God damn it, she's _really fucking pissed at him_. Her nostrils flare with each breath she takes, each inhale of his mouth, and she watches him, watches him watch her, waiting for her next move.

He glances at her lips, concentrated, and oh, _fucking hell_.

Her hands press into his arms, and she pulls him into her, returning to the embrace they were in only moments before. She gasps against him, fists in his hair and tugging him down, closer to her, so close she can feel the erratic beating of his heart.

Bellamy groans. His breath is sweet and rough on the stretch of her cheek. He runs his fingers down her sides, gripping her waist and turning them, pressing her into the door. She moans at the impact, and her movements are desperate, rough, skin hard against each other's.

His touch leaves a pattern of heat on her stomach, and she curses when he cups the warmth of her jeans.

" _Bellamy_ ," she whimpers. " _Damn it_."

She squirms at his motions, the pressure his palm gives her. He isn't gentle, neither are his lips, and she rolls her hips into his hand, gripping his shoulders for balance. He curses, and she pushes into his touch again, into _him_ , and he cups her harder.

Clarke moans, tilting her head against the door, and he leans forward, moving strands of her strewn hair to trail kisses along the side of her neck. She closes her eyes, allowing the waves of pleasure to course through her body, filling her with want and -

There's a knock on the door, near her head, and Bellamy lifts his mouth from her skin.

"Occupied," he grumbles.

There's a pause. "Bell?"

Clarke's eyes widen. _Wick_. Bellamy covers his hand over her mouth.

"Yeah," he hisses, removing his fingers from her jeans. He glances at her when she breathes against him. "What's up, man?"

"You seen Clarke?"

Bellamy presses is lips together. "Nope."

Clarke looks at him, shaking her head, and Wick sighs from the other side of the door. "Alright, well find her!" he mutters, and she can hear Raven's voice in the distance. "We're catching a cab back to campus soon."

"You got it."

Wick grunts a reply, something about hoping she isn't hidden somewhere with the Preacher, and she scoffs, her words muffled by Bellamy's palm. She rolls her eyes, waiting for his voice to fade into the distance before removing his fingers from her already swollen lips.

Bellamy exhales, looking down at her. His hand hovers above her collarbone.

She pursues her lips. "So."

"So."

Clarke sighs longingly. "Bell. We need to have the talk."

"Yeah," he whispers. "I know."

She nods, and - yeah, she doesn't know where to go from here either. Damn it. She wishes O was here, not _here_ , watching her have sex with her brother, but at least her advice. She always gives good advice - the kind you hate in the moment but secretly appreciate.

Clarke taps her fingers against his core. "This rule we have? No sex with other people? That still goes unless you meet someone else you want to have sex with," she tells him, "then we have to call this whole thing off."

"Sounds fair," he agrees, and then, "still no hickeys?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes. Still no hickeys. Anything else?"

Bellamy shrugs, glancing at her chest pressed against his. "Your boobs," he states, and she raises an eyebrow. "I like them."

"And?" she laughs.

"And I'd like to be the only who likes them."

Clarke runs her hands up his body, pulling up her shirt. "Fine," she conveys, and he winks at her, leaning forward to nibble at her earlobe. She closes her eyes. "Also. Roma is off limits."

Bellamy whispers the words into her skin. "Because you hate her?"

"Yes," she whispers. "And I'm giving you permission to consider my feelings."

He smirks, his teeth pressing into her neck, making her shiver. His finger curls around her chin, tilting her face towards his, and he kisses her, lazier this time, not filled with anger and irritation and fury. It's almost gentle.

She breathes against him, melting into it.

"Bell!" There's a slam on the door as Wick's voice echoes through the music. Clarke huffs in annoyance. "Tuck your dick in already, let's go!"

Bellamy groans. He pulls away from her, and she presses her lips together to hide the pout that forms on her features. His hand rests on the doorknob, and he looks at her, grinning widely.

"What?" she questions.

"Your hair," he tells her. "It's _sexified_."

Clarke shakes her head. "That's okay. I'll just say it was Macallan."

"And I'll say it was Roma."

She gasps, and he curses when she lifts her hand, opening the door and sliding out before she could punch him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! So that's chapter four of Friends (With Benefits)! Hope you guys enjoyed it, and I'm so excited to read your thoughts. They're always my favourite part about writing. Also, fun fact - Macallan was the name of Shawn Mendes character on the show! I really wanted to include him in this (big Shawn Mendes fan) and thought this would be a fun idea.
> 
> Now on a more serious note, I am so upset seeing how sad some people are over the death of Lexa. Yes, I'm a hardcore Bellarke shipper, but I also loved Lexa! She was great! Please know that the actress physically couldn't be on the show anymore, and that Lexa's spirit will live on in her fans forever! Fall down, get back up again, right?
> 
> But. Yeah. Hope all who are struggling are doing alright. My peace and love. Enjoy the week - xoxo.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! Omg! The reaction from the last chapter was amazing! Honestly, I was going to wait a couple more days to start this chapter (busy with midterms), but since you guys were so sweet in your reviews, I decided to find time to begin it early. Thank you so much. Love reading your thoughts and expectations on the stories - totally gives me a mindset on where I want to take it!
> 
> P.S. - to that reviewer who was upset I spoiled episode 7, I'm so sorry! Honestly assumed everyone knew what happened. Will do a 'beware of spoilers' tag next time, for sure.
> 
> As for the rest of you - enjoy this chapter! Some fun stuff ahead.

i.

Midterm season is like being one of Dr. Bailey's interns on _Grey's Anatomy_.

It's stressful. And hard. And _stressful_.

Which sucks, because school is difficult enough without the added pressure of memorizing notes and lectures; or even those professors who make their students listen to academic podcasts. She doesn't even know what terms match with each of her classes, and it's horrible, because her sociology midterm is coming up, and there's so many _God damn definitions_.

There's feminism theories and marxist theories and theories with names she can't even spell. It's a lot to remember, but there are some terms she's familiar with, like status and power, functionalism, and -

"Fuck."

Bellamy stills above her. "What's wrong?"

Clarke huffs. _God damn it_. She shakes her head, running her teeth along her lower lip. He begins to shift, pulling away - or more so pulling _out_ \- and she groans, tightening her thighs around the bones of his hips.

"No, no," she breathes, and he looks at her. "I just - I forgot a definition."

"For what?"

"Blue-collar," she tells him.

He presses his lips together. "Easy. People who work in manual labour."

" _No_ ," she hisses, adjusting beneath him. His hair is damp on her skin, and she blows a curl from her forehead. "That's white-collar."

"It's blue-collar," he insists.

"I'm in the class. I think I would know."

Bellamy grins. And it's that stupid grin that makes her ovaries roll and her legs turn to a puddle. He shifts, leaning towards her, and she stifles a moan at the friction, at the movement his body creates inside her.

"Interesting," he whispers, his breath at her ear, "since you can't even form a coherent explanation of it."

Clarke grips his shoulders. "Shut up. My mind is rather preoccupied right now."

"Not preoccupied enough."

He kisses her, and she sighs, wrapping her fingers around his biceps to bring him closer. He begins to move inside her in those lazy thrusts that drive her crazy with frustration then insane with pleasure, the ones that -

"Clarke? Clarke!"

Bellamy pulls away, groaning. "Oh, _come on._ "

Clarke curses, lifting the sheets from their bodies as the sound of footsteps echo in the hallway. He huffs, pushing himself off her and shifting on the mattress, rolling onto the ground near the window, which is open, because Bellamy Blake doesn't mind waking her up at 6:00 am for a booty call.

She squirms, pulling the sheets on top of her as Octavia enters the bedroom.

"Griffin!" she exclaims, walking to the edge of the bed. Her mouth foams with toothpaste and her eyes are slitted with exhaustion. "Are you awake?" She squints her eyes into the dimness of her room. "You're awake. Good."

Clarke throws her arm over her eyes. "What do you want, O?"

"Me and Raven are going to the library in about an hour," she tells her. "You want to come?"

"Sure. I'll meet you downstairs."

Octavia lowers the toothbrush from her teeth. "Okay," she murmurs, and she exhales deeply, pursuing her lips. "When did you start sleeping naked?"

Clarke peeks at her from underneath her arm. "It's midterms. I sweat when I'm stressed."

"Oh, yeah. You do. It's gross."

"Thanks, O."

Octavia grins, and she turns on her heel, pulling the door behind her as she walks out of the bedroom. Clarke sighs and runs a hand over her face, the fresh air from the window rolling into the room with a warm breeze.

Bellamy sits up from his position on the floor, his eyebrows raised with amusement.

"Fuck, Blake," she growls. "Your sister needs to learn some boundaries."

"Why are you telling _me_ this?"

"Because you raised her," she explains. "And you need to learn some boundaries."

Bellamy scoffs. "I lead a great example on boundaries."

"You snuck into my room at six in the morning to have sex."

"Well," he sighs, staring at her. "You didn't exactly disagree."

Clarke huffs. She hates him; hates _her_ for being so God damn weak around him. For being willing when he entered her bedroom, when he woke her up with soft kisses against her neck, whispering things into her ear that made her -

She groans. "Bellamy," she hisses, and she's impatient; because there's a growing heat between her thighs that only he can get rid of. "Just shut up and finish the damn job."

He lifts himself from the floor. "Putting me to work, huh? Sounds like blue-collar labour."

"It's white-collar."

"No. It's - "

She exhales sharply. "Okay. Fine. It's _fucking blue-collar_!" He grins, hovering above her and adjusting in the space between her legs. "Now get to business. You have two minutes."

Bellamy lowers his lips to her stomach. "Please. I can do this in one."

"Oh, please. As if you could possibly - "

But then he presses his mouth against the inside of her thighs, and she gasps, gripping his hair; cursing him when he smirks into her heat. Her eyes flutter closed, and, _shit_ okay - it doesn't take one minute.

It takes about 45 seconds.

* * *

 

ii.

Clarke breathes deeply as she walks down the stairs, hair still damp from her shower (the one Bellamy insisted on taking with her, exhibiting how easy it is to piss her off and turn her on at the same time), and she hesitates in the doorway of the kitchen, her nostrils flaring, sensing the scent of -

"Yes!" She claps her hands together. "Pancakes!"

She enters the room, and Wick glances at her from the stove, eyes narrow with sleep. A pile of pancakes settle on a plate on the kitchen counter, and she leans forward, reaching for the top one.

Wick slaps her hand away. "Those are for Raven."

"Oh?" she challenges, and he sighs when she shoves a piece into her mouth. "You trying to impress her?"

He shrugs. "She's been grumpy all week."

"It's midterms. Of course she's grumpy."

"Well. Still. It's been driving me fucking nuts," he tells her.

Clark raises an eyebrow. "And you thought pancakes would cure her?"

"It would cure you."

She laughs. Because, yeah, pancakes are _the fucking best_. She licks the remaining taste of them from the tips of her fingers, and Wick watches her with a narrow glare, shaking his head.

She presses her lips together. "Well, if the sex doesn't help."

"Oh, trust me," he murmurs, "it helps."

She scowls, gesturing a finger into her mouth and gagging dramatically. Wick chuckles, and there's a rough sound as the door to the kitchen closes; Bellamy walking into the room with a smug smirk and hair as damp as hers.

Wick slaps a hand on his shoulder in greeting, and Clarke groans.

Bellamy nods at him. "Sup, Wick. Hope your morning's been as good as mine." She widens her eyes, scoffing, and he turns to her. "Griffin. How's yours been?"

She sneers at him. "Splendid. Wick made me pancakes."

" _Clarke_ ," Wick whines. "They're for Raven."

Bellamy grins, and he steps forward, dropping his gym bag onto the ground. She glares at him as he leans onto the kitchen counter beside her, ripping a piece of the pancake from her plate.

"Crazy; how both of our mornings have been fantastic," he hums. "Coincidence, isn't it?"

She stares at him. "I'll tell you what would be a coincidence, if my fork accidentally mistook your face for my pancake."

"For God's sakes, those pancakes _are supposed to be for Raven_."

Clarke rolls her eyes, sticking out her tongue to reveal the crumbs in her mouth; the chewed up bits of batter remaining around her lips. He mutters under his breath, cursing, stretching forward to take her pancake and -

Raven walks down the stairs then, her hair pulled into a pony tail and her nose scrunched in frustration.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. "Hey, Raven."

She grumbles in response, climbing onto the stool beside Clarke.

Wick stares at her, chewing on her bottom lip as she rests her elbows on the counter. He exhales, reaching for the remaining pancake (which is half eaten, and infected from Bellamy's germs) and the bottle of syrup, pushing them in front of her.

Raven stares at the plate. "Half a pancake. Thanks."

Wick sighs, and Bellamy slaps his shoulder. "You'll make it up her. Now let's go, we've got training soon." He lifts his gym bag from the floor and glances at Clarke and Raven. "Ladies, have a wonderful night."

"I'm telling you now, yours won't be," Clarke mutters.

"Doubtful."

She shakes her head, watching him turn to Wick and follow him out of the room. She huffs, the kitchen unfamiliarly quiet with Raven's presence, and she turns to her, clicking her tongue against her cheeks.

"So. Are you going to eat that?"

* * *

 

iii.

Octavia presses her head against the table and groans, nails hard on the wood.

"So much information," she mumbles. "So little attention span."

Clarke whines and closes her eyes, pinching her fingers on the bridge of her nose. The library is quiet, so quiet - which kind of makes sense - but it also makes her think more, and stress more; and she squeezes her fingers harder to keep the angry tears from forming.

Raven smacks the back of her head, and Clarke's eyes flutter open.

"Stop complaining," she hisses. "No use crying about it."

Clarke huffs. "I'm not crying."

"Looked like it. That's you're ' _almost crying_ ' face," Octavia tells her.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

A student across the room whips from their chair to face them, and he presses his fingers to his lips, eyes hard and cold. Raven waves him off and turns to them in irritation.

"It means that you two should shut up and start studying," she mutters, and Octavia presses her forehead harder against the surface. "Or else you'll fail, and then you'll really have something to almost cry about."

Clarke clenches her fists together. "I'll show _you_ something to almost - "

There's an exhale, and a clearing of a throat, and Clarke turns towards the end of the table. A woman stands in front of them, her brown hair pulled above her head as she observes them with a small grin of amusement.

"Martin!" Raven greets, and she breathes in relief. "You're a mature person, right? Tell them they're being morons."

The girl laughs. "I take it you're not taking midterms too well?"

Clarke grunts in response, and Octavia hushes her.

"This is Clarke. Ignore her, she can't function without coffee."

The girl smiles, timid, her expression coaxed with interest. She looks at her, eyebrows pinched together as her green depths turn dark with curiosity. Her arms fold over her chest, and Clarke narrows her gaze; defensive.

"Clarke," the girl draws out, and it sounds unfamiliar on her lips. "I know you."

Clarke raises an eyebrow. "Oh, sure . . . "

"Gina." She extends a hand towards her, and Clarke hesitantly shakes it. "I've seen you around campus with Bellamy before."

Octavia turns to her. "Ew. You hang out with my brother?"

Clarke's presses her lips together. _God damn it, Gina_. She glances at her, at the amused grin that traces her lips and - ugh, she doesn't like this girl. It's quick to judge, and she hasn't had coffee which makes her thinking problematic, but still - _she doesn't like this girl._

"Yeah, sure, why not," she stutters, and seriously, she sounds like a fucking guilty person who claims they aren't guilty. "If you don't want to talk to anyone, you should bring him around. He scares everyone."

Raven winks at Gina. "Except you."

"What? You guys friends?"

"Are you kidding?" Octavia snickers. "She's the best. Every good grade my brother has is thanks to her."

Clarke smiles tightly. "Lucky him."

Gina flushes, her eyes brightening at the comments. Clarke's fist clenches harder against her side, because this girl's smile is fucking _magical_ , and - that's not human, no one can smile like during midterms. Another reason not to like her. She's not even human.

"He's smarter than he tries to let on. Trust me," she giggles, and it makes her sick, as if she knows Bellamy better than them. "I'll see you guys around, though. Got a midterm tomorrow."

Raven smiles at her departing, and Octavia waves, shouting a quick goodbye as she turns from the table. The guy across the table glares at them again, and Raven gives him the middle finger in response.

Octavia sighs. "She's the cutest."

"Isn't she?" Clarke snarls.

Raven glances at her, the end of her pencil trapped between her teeth. She exhales deeply and shakes her head, pressing the eraser against Clarke's temple. She sways it away in irritation.

"Touchy," she teases, and Clarke digs her nails into the surface. "Someone needs to get laid."

* * *

 

iv.

Bellamy exhales longingly as he stands beside her; lips pressed together in that delicious way that makes her want to punch his smug grin while also ripping the shirt off his chest. She blinks, because this is serious, and she needs to focus.

Focus. And not on the crumbs that scatter along his upper lip, but focus on _Gina_ , and how -

"She knows," Clarke whispers, glancing at the people in line behind them. "I'm telling you, Blake - the girl knows."

Bellamy shakes his head. "She doesn't."

"She _does_."

He groans, stepping closer to coffee shop. He looks tired - which, unfortunately, not from the stress reliever she just gave him in the public washroom only minutes before - but a tired that involves the stress of midterms, one that isn't solved with his trademark smirks.

He runs a hand along his face. "She made one comment, Griffin," he mutters lowly. "Stop exaggerating."

"I'm not exaggerating. You should have seen her eyes! They were big. Crazy, even."

He glances at her. "Like yours?"

"Fuck off," she huffs.

A student snickers behind them, and Clarke turns to him, eyebrows raised in annoyance. The boy glances at her and instantly notices the challenge in her glare; covering his mouth and bowing his head.

Bellamy adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Clarke. Relax. I know Gina. She thinks we hate each other."

Clarke frowns. _Gina this, Gina that; Gina, Gina, Gina_. She presses her lips together and folds her arms over her chest, glancing at the bruising mark that begins to grow on his neck, the one her teeth only recently crafted. _Her_ teeth; teach a lesson on that, Gina.

The coffee shop employee calls them forward, and Clarke orders a latte with "extra, thick foam to make the taste last longer in her mouth", making Bellamy tense at his shoulders and - yeah, that's another thing Gina doesn't know how to do.

Clarke turns to him as she grabs her drink from the counter.

"Well, if she's right about that, then she could be right about - " she swallows thickly, raising an eyebrow, "you know, that other thing we do."

"You mean the hand job you just gave me in the shared washroom? That other thing?"

Clarke coughs into her cup. " _Bellamy_."

"What?" he grumbles, glancing at the white stain on her lips. "So you can order a latte with dildo foam but I can't even mention - "

She wipes the liquid from her mouth. "It's just coffee! Not my fault you're always so damn - "

" - Horny? Right. _I'm_ the horny one."

"You are."

"Am not," he grunts.

Clarke huffs, looking at the students that scatter loosely in the hallway they're standing in, completely oblivious to their argument. She curses and turns back to him, mouth open and ready to retort; but then there's a hand on her back and lips against her neck, and she's being pushed into a dark room filled with brooms.

Bellamy closes the door, pushing her against it; and she drops the latte onto the ground.

"Damn it, Bellamy," she hisses, voice raspy from lust or anger - _she doesn't fucking know_.

His teeth graze the skin of her earlobe, and she shudders, already melting against him. "We're in the janitor's closet," he tells her, and it's stupid how good his voice feels on her neck. "Make a mess. Make some noise. We can clean it up."

Clarke huffs against him. "And you were trying to convince me that I was the one who couldn't control myself?"

"Still debatable."

And when he kisses her, mouth full of rage and aggression, she fights back with the same pressure, the same strength; and suddenly she's gasping for breath, cheeks flushed when he lifts her into his arms and pushes her against the door.

"Someone could hear us," she protests, but it's weak, and she moans when his fingers skim her waist. "Someone can walk in."

"There's cobwebs on the shelves. I don't think anyone's been here in a while."

Clarke frowns. "Cobwebs. How romantic."

"Not all castles are royal, princess."

She rolls her eyes, and he leans in to kiss her again, his stress lines smoothening under her hands as she cups his face. He moves closer, feet wet on the puddle beneath them, and his shoes make that sticky sound each time he takes a step, even afterwards when they return to their friends at the library, making an excuse on why they took so long.

* * *

 

v.

The library is empty when she returns to it a couple days later, fists clenched at her sides. She's annoyed. _Really_ annoyed. Her history midterm is tomorrow, and she needs a textbook. A really big textbook that's nestled on the very top shelf.

Of fucking course.

Clarke presses her fingers against the wood, hands clutching the shelf as she stretches against it. The bookcase rattles beneath her, and she groans, palm hovering above the textbook at the top, and she reaches for it, pushing onto -

"Clarke?"

She rolls onto the balls of her feet and turns to the person beside her.

Her eyes widen. "Macallan?"

He smiles at her, that innocent grin that attracted her to him when she noticed him across the bar. He ruffles a hand through his hair and shifts nervously on his feet, adjusting the bag on his shoulder.

"I didn't know you went here," she says.

Macallan shrugs. "You didn't give me a chance to tell you."

Clarke presses her lips together, remembering why he didn't get the chance and why she never gave him one. She remembers Bellamy's hands and words of anger that quickly turned to hidden and aggressive kisses in the washroom.

She flushes. "Yeah," she whispers, shaking her head. "Sorry. I had to get out of there quick."

"That's alright," he tells her, and he hovers above her and reaches for the history textbook. She grins when he gives it to her. "Maybe we could continue our conversation later?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Midterm madness though, you know?"

Macallan nods. "What about after?"

Clarke exhales. She taps her fingers against the surface of the textbook and presses it against her chest, staring at him with wide eyes, because - hell, the poor guy is adorable, she's afraid he'll tip over if she breathes too heavy.

"I'm actually not available," she tells him.

His gaze narrows. "I thought you said you were single?"

"I am! I'm just not available - _physically_ , I mean."

"I don't follow."

Clarke sneers. "You don't have to," she mutters, and he opens his mouth, impatient, and she holds a finger in front of them. "Nice seeing you though. God be with you and everything, right?"

He stares at her, and she turns from the aisle when he glances at her chest, pulling the zipper of her sweater up to her neck.

* * *

 

vi.

Clarke skims her fingers along the words in the textbook and closes her eyes, reciting the terms in her head. _Triple Entente_. She knows that one. The alliance that formed before the First World War even began, made up of Russia, England and - fuck. Italy? Was it Italy? No, it was Austria.

She glances at the definition. _France_. Of course it was fucking France. She groans, dropping her forehead against the textbook.

Bellamy looks at her from his desk. "Was that moan caused by stress, or are you trying to tell me something?"

She huffs, tightening the pages between her fingers.

"Stress," he concludes, nodding as he leans in his chair. "Definitely stress."

Clarke grumbles as she lifts her forehead from the hardcover, rolling on Bellamy's bed and shifting onto her back. She places the book on her chest and clutches it against her, nails digging into the paper.

She closes her eyes. "I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot who's going to fail and never succeed in life again."

His eyebrows rise in amusement. "What are you studying?"

"History. The son of a bitch is my last midterm."

Bellamy presses his lips together, expression calculating. He sighs, standing from the chair at his desk and walking to the bed, laying beside her. He reaches for the textbook; and she watches as his eyes scan the material.

She chews on her bottom lip. "Confusing stuff, am I right?"

He shrugs. "Not confusing. Just a lot to remember." He lowers the textbook onto his mattress and looks at her. "There's the Triple Entente, with Russia, England and France. Then the Triple Alliance, with Germany, Italy and - "

"Turkey?"

Bellamy grins. "Austria-Hungary."

"Right," she mutters, and she stares at him, her lips pursing. "You know history?"

"Yeah."

She narrows her gaze. "How did I not know that?"

"You never asked," he tells her.

Her mouth tightens, and she sighs, shifting on the mattress to face him. He remains on his back, his fingers absently curling around the hem of her shirt, and he traces lazy circles on her skin, his eyes refusing to meet hers.

"Your mom read it to you, didn't she?"

He shakes his head. "Dad, actually."

Clarke nods. She never met their father, but she's heard of him, listened to the horror stories Octavia used to tell her. He was a drunk, a complete prick, but he was still their dad, they still loved him; even when he left in the middle of the night to get milk, and never came back home.

"Don't get me wrong," Bellamy mumbles, and he glances at her, his palm resting on her hip. "The guy was an absolute idiot, but he had a good brain when he used it. Would buy some snacks and make me watch those damn documentaries."

She grins. "That sounds nice."

"It was." He sighs and skims his palm higher up her stomach. "Until Octavia would ruin it by crying about the dead guys on TV. And then eat all my chips."

"Oh, God. That's tragic."

"Very tragic," he agrees. "Even more tragic than the Hundred Days Offensive. Am I right?"

"I don't know what that is," she admits.

His eyes widen, a hint of warmth in them. "You don't know what that - _Clarke_." He removes his hand from her skin, and she huffs. "That's the deadliest battle of World War One, there were over a million casualties, and - "

Clarke rolls her eyes, and she leans forward, pressing her lips against his and swallowing his words. He grunts at the sudden pressure, and then he reaches for her, his hand cupping the back of her neck and his arm guiding her as she straddles his hips

She pulls away to trail kisses along his neck, and he runs his palms along the skin underneath her shirt.

"Griffin," he mumbles, and he sounds defeated. "You have a midterm tomorrow."

She sucks on the spot behind his ear. "I need a study break."

"Be my guest. But I'm just saying - this totally proves you're the horny one."

Clarke laughs into his neck, and his hands tighten on her waist. "What can I say?" she muses, nuzzling her nose across his cheek. She shifts to hover her mouth above his, lips touching when she speaks. "History turns me on."

He looks up at her, and she sees the hint of a grin before he kisses her again, pulling her close into his chest as her hands unbutton his shirt. She sighs, and she thinks of _Grey's Anatomy_ , thinks of how the interns manage to survive Dr. Bailey; how students manage to survive through midterms.

Stress relievers; that's what people use. And Bellamy Blake happens to be hers.

And, from the return of his smirk only moments later, she figures that she happens to be his, too.

* * *

 

vii.

The next morning, when Raven asks her if she wants coffee, Clarke says no.

And it ruins _fucking everything_.

Raven stares at her, her eyes wide with disbelief. She holds the mug loosely between her fingers, arm outstretched towards Clarke, and she glances at Octavia, who's shocked expression matches her own.

Raven clears her throat. "Did you just say no to coffee?"

"During midterms?" Octavia questions.

Clarke swallows thickly. God damn it. Her eyes shift between them, each woman equally as terrifying as the other, and she curses, reaching for the mug in Raven's grasp and bringing it to her lips.

"Yes. No. I mean - " she takes a sip, and smiles brightly. "Yeah. I need coffee."

Octavia raises an eyebrow, and Raven's eyes expand with satisfaction.

"Oh, my God," she mumbles, and she turns to Octavia. "She's getting laid."

Clarke coughs into her cup. " _What_?"

"And _often_."

Clarke huffs. She lowers the coffee mug onto the kitchen counter, because - honestly, she got screwed multiple times last night, so yeah she's not as stressed, but they definitely don't need to know that.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Fuck off," she mutters. "No, I'm not."

Octavia grips her knee. "You are. Now, who is it?"

"Is it someone we know?" Raven demands.

"Is it someone we don't know?"

Raven gasps. "Oh!" she expresses, and her lips curve. "Is it a _girl_?"

Clarke groans, and she gets off the stool, lowering her feet onto the ground. She reaches for her history textbook (the one Bellamy made her read from as he went down on her last night) and stomps her foot, turning to them.

"Enough!" she squeaks, and Raven covers her mouth to hide her excitement. "I have a history midterm to write. Now both of you stop getting excited because I'm not getting laid. Got it?"

Octavia presses her lips together and glances at Raven.

"It's definitely someone we know."

Clarke curses, dropping her head in her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhhhhkay! That's chapter five! What did you guys think? Sensing any rising feelings between Bellamy and Clarke, looking forward to Octavia and them finding out? Stay tuned! All questions will be answered!
> 
> Also - my name on twitter is Bellarke95 - if you want to follow for some fun Bellarke tweets and little previews of upcoming chapters. It would be so awesome to interact with some of you guys!
> 
> Happy bellarking! Again, thanks so much for the reviews and reads! Love you guys!


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm back with a new chapter! Thanks again for all of those awesome comments/reviews! They literally give me life and also give me direction of how this story will continue to unfold. It's been so much fun going on this ride with you, and thanks again for those who have stuck by this story, and those who have joined along the way. Very grateful!
> 
> Onto the good stuff - packed chapter ahead. Enjoy. xo.

i.

Clarke presses her lips together, tapping her finger along the rim of her glass. She's screwed. _They're_ screwed - and not in the way she likes. Not in the way that makes her legs tremble with every touch; but in that stupid, frustrating way that makes her fist clench at her sides and her mouth twitch in irritation.

Because they're _screwed_. Octavia and Raven know something and - oh fuck, they're screwed.

She sighs, leaning her elbows onto the bar. It isn't busy; which is a surprise since midterms have just finished, but she's glad, because she wants to stress alone, wants to curse her friends for being curious bastards with only vodka cranberries as her therapists.

But then a man settles onto the stool beside her, and she slumps further in her seat.

"Midterms are over, Blondie. What's the trouble?"

Clarke turns to him, prepared to tell him to find another girl to piss off. But she hesitates, his eyes a familiar brown and his voice a tone she's heard before. She tilts her head, pointing a finger at him.

"I know you," she mumbles. And she snaps her fingers when he grins. "Miller, right?"

He nods. "Yeah. Clarke. I've seen you at the house before."

"That's right. I'm the idiot who used to date Finn."

Miller narrows his eyes. "Or you mean he's the idiot who cheated on you."

Clarke laughs. It feels nice to know that other people have realized what a soul-suffocating bastard Finn is. She exhales and brings the glass to her lips, taking a sip before turning to him again.

"Was that a compliment?" she muses. "I didn't know nice guys existed in frat houses."

"Not nice. Just gay," he tells her.

She squints her eyes at him. "You're gay? That's - " she gasps, slamming her palm on the counter. "I knew I saw you hooking up with Monty that one night! That was totally you, wasn't it?"

He chuckles. "Yeah, but that's still a secret."

"Oh, right." She nods, tilting the glass to her mouth. "I'm guessing that's why you're here."

"Sam as you. You know, since you're the one that's been boning Blake for months."

Clarke coughs, cursing into her drink, and he shrugs.

"His room is next to mine," he explains. "I hear you guys argue more than I hear you bang."

She presses her mouth together, because - God damn it, they're not as careful as she thought. He looks at her, an amusement grin stretched on his features, and she bites on her bottom lip.

"Nobody knows," she tells him.

He nods. "Yeah. I get why." Whistling low, he shakes his head. "That's one hell of an awkward situation."

"I know, right? I'm glad you understand."

"I do. But - " The bartender walks towards them, and he waves him for a drink. "It's worth it, isn't it? Sex is great."

Clarke hums in agreement. "I love sex."

"And the sneaking around? So much hotter."

Her eyes widen. "It does make it interesting."

Miller chuckles, reaching for his glass as the bartender places it in front of him. He runs his finger along the rim and lifts it from the counter, turning to Clarke and tipping it towards her.

"To forbidden sex," he announces.

She smiles, tapping her glass against his. "To forbidden sex."

And when she takes the drink, she forgets, just for a moment, how completely screwed she still is.

* * *

 

ii.

Clarke groans when she enters her room, and she peels off her sweater, collapsing on her bed.

It's late, quiet, and her body is sore from maximum stress and minimum sleep. She lifts her head, swearing when she feels an ache in her skull, and she curses Miller for his insistence on drinking more vodka cranberries while sharing terrifying sex stories.

She remembers having the second drink after he told her about almost being caught in the laundry room, pants down and Monty's shirt off, but then after that - well, yeah, she's not exactly sure.

_God damn it, Miller._

She sighs, pushing herself off the bed (she almost falls, but - that's not important) and stumbling towards her dresser. Her fingers tug at the hem of her top and she peels it from her body, laying it on the top -

There's a movement in the corner of her room, and Clarke screams, clutching the sweater to her chest. She hears cursing, ruffling, and then Raven stands from behind her desk, hands raised above her head.

"Clarke it's - _ow,_ you hit me!" Raven steps forward, grabbing her wrist. "I said calm down, Tiny Tank."

Clarke pulls her arm from her grasp. "Calm down? _You_ calm down," she hisses, and _oh_ _God_ , her heart feels like it's exploding, and she's fainting - is she fainting? "What the fuck are you doing in here?"

Raven shrugs. "Stakeout. What are you doing home so late?" She squints her gaze, and she leans forward, sniffing her sweater. "Oh, my God. Are you drunk?"

" _Sh_. Too many questions," she grumbles. "I just want to eat chips and get some _God damn sleep_."

"Sleep? You sure that's all your doing?"

Clarke groans, pressing her forehead against the dresser.

"O! You can come out now," Raven calls. "Clarke's lover isn't here. And she's drunk."

"I'm not _drunk_."

There's a rustle of movement, and Octavia stumbles from the closet, her hair tangled in the hangers. A loose skirt hangs on the length of her arm, and she drags it from her shoulder, dropping it onto the floor.

"Thank God," she gasps. "Those clothes were suffocating me."

Clarke stares at her. "O, why the - " She closes her mouth, breathing deeply and rubbing her fingers against her temples. "You guys are insane. Did you know that? You're _insane_."

"And you're clearly drunk," Octavia concludes.

"I'm not - "

"Griffin," Raven groans. "Just tell us who you're sleeping with."

"No one!"

"It's totally that guy from those parties," Octavia says, dismissing her. "That one with the blonde hair. We went to high school with him, I think."

Raven scoffs. "Dax? No way." She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the dresser. Octavia taps her finger against her chin. "I think it's the guy from the bar. Remember him? He was so cute."

Clarke grunts, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her head still hurts, and she curses Miller and those vodka cranberries, curses Raven and Octavia for being so God damn nosy; hates Bellamy for making it so damn difficult to sneak around with him when all she wants to do is rip his clothes off every chance she gets.

So, yeah, they're still completely _screwed_.

* * *

 

iii.

Clarke curses as she enters Bellamy's truck, shutting the passenger's door closed behind her.

"Remind me again why you texted me at three in the morning, and not even for a booty call."

She huffs, avoiding his question as she pulls the sweater tighter around her body. She scrambles onto the seat, groaning as the seatbelt wraps around her shoulder, and Bellamy watches her from behind the steering wheel, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

"You drunk, Griffin?" he teases.

"I'm not - " she presses her lips together and settles her hands against the dashboard. "Okay. Can you just - do you mind getting this seatbelt off me? I don't know where it unplugs."

He laughs and reaches forward, untangling the seatbelt from her chest.

"Thank you," she mumbles, and she breathes deeply, leaning into the leather. "Now hear me out. I texted you for a very, _very_ important reason."

"Get to it."

Clarke raises an eyebrow. "Grumpy, are you?"

"Not grumpy," he whispers, tilting his head against the seat. "Just tired."

"I'll be quick. Just - _Okay_ , remember when I told you that Gina knew about us?"

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "Not true, but yes."

"Well, that might be the least of our worries."

He looks at her, gaze narrowing in the dimness of his truck. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Clarke sighs, because she doesn't even God damn know either. She leans forward and adjusts in the seat, her legs folding over the leather as she turns towards him. He watches her, entertained, and she glances at the window, eyes widening when -

"Clarke?"

She surges forward and places her hands on his shoulders, shoving him below the seat.

"Are you - " he groans, and she looks at him, their faces hovering at the armrest. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Improvising," she tells him.

"Improvising? _Clarke_. You're making it difficult to keep up, here."

She chews on her bottom lip. She peeks her head above the rim of the window, squinting into the darkness. There's a movement, and she curses when she notices the outline of a shadow behind the bushes, rustling against the leaves.

She drops her forehead against the armrest.

"They follow me everywhere," she grumbles.

Bellamy leans further up his seat. "Who - "

"No! Don't move." She wraps her hand around the back of his head, stilling him. "It's Raven, and your damn sister; they think I'm sleeping with someone and they've been," she sighs heavily, " _investigating_."

He presses his lips together. "Well. They're not wrong."

"Exactly. Which is why we need to be _careful_."

He breathes longingly, looking at her in the darkness of his truck. His face is close to hers, and she can see the freckles that tint his skin, can see the twitch of his mouth. He leans back, peeling her fingers from the skin on his neck and shifting upwards on the seat.

"Bell," she hisses. "They'll see you."

He waves her off. "Relax your drunk ass, Griffin."

He lifts himself onto the leather, settling behind the steering wheel of the car. His eyes narrow out the window, and there's a low curse, his tone rough, and he shakes his head in bewilderment.

"For God's sakes."

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. "What?"

"It's a _damn cat_."

She raises her eyebrows, her fingers digging into the leather as she climbs onto the seat. She leans over him, her hand clasping his shoulder as she stares out the window; searching, searching, searching and - _oh_. She see's it now.

"Oops," she murmurs. He drops his forehead on her shoulder. "I mean it's got a long tail, could totally resemble Octavia's hair."

Bellamy blows low against her ear. "Nice try."

She exhales, shifting to settle her elbows on the armrest. He watches her in disbelief, gaze bright and weary, but she can see the hint of a grin on his lips, can see how hard he's trying to hide it.

She tightens her mouth together. "This is still a problem, you know."

"I know," he mumbles, glancing at the ceiling of his truck. "But we can't do anything about it tonight. So, how about you get your drunk ass to bed? And I'll get my tired ass to bed. And we can deal with it when we can."

"I'm not drunk," she sighs, and he chuckles. She looks at him. "You're not even going to try and sex me up? That's new."

Bellamy shrugs. "Midterms are finally over. I'll get back to sexing you up once I catch up on some sleep."

She hums, her gaze brightening the darkness of his truck. She reaches forward, taking the hem of his shirt between her hands and rubbing the material along her fingers. She glances up at him, watching him watch her, his eyes dark.

"I'm not too sure," she whispers, slipping her palm against the heat of his toned stomach. "This may be the last time you have your chance if Raven and your sister are going to be following me everywhere."

He groans. " _Clarke_."

"I'm just saying," she mumbles, and she shrugs. "My window's always open."

(He crawls through her window seven minutes later, and - _oh_ , Miller's so right. It's worth it).

* * *

 

iv.

"What about Sterling? It could be Sterling."

Clarke breathes deeply, dipping the stirring stick into her latte and mixing it amongst the overflowing foam. Raven leans into her chair, arms crossed over her chest as she consider's Octavia's theory.

She purses her lips. "Not Sterling," she concludes, and she glances at Clarke. "Griffin's lover clearly has the skills to sexually satisfy her. Sterling can't do that. I hear he has a small dick."

Octavia raises an eyebrow. "Who told you that?"

"Echo."

"Echo's full of shit," Octavia tells her.

Raven shrugs. "Maybe. You have to talk to her when she's drinking beer, not wine." She taps her fingers along the table in the coffee shop, scrunching her nose. "Plus, Harper told me the exact same thing."

"Poor kid. Maybe he has nice hands," Octavia offers.

"That's not good enough. Clarke's hard to please."

Octavia sighs. "Very true." She looks at Clarke and shakes her head in amusement. "You're a walking bundle of nerves, impossible to unwind. The guy you're sleeping with must have the - "

Clarke's eyes widen, and she claps her hands together; smiling tightly.

"How about we talk about something else, yeah?" She leans her elbows on the table and wiggles her eyebrows. "Let's educate ourselves. Discuss the weather. Say what we love about each other."

Raven rolls her eyes. Octavia feigns a yawn.

"You're just panicking because we're getting close to figuring it out," Raven murmurs.

Octavia nods. "Very close."

Clarke chews on her bottom lip. _God damn nosy bastards_. She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes; listening to the distant murmur of their voices as they continue to expand on their theories. She's pissed, completely ticked off, because - _fuck_ , now her latte is cold.

It's disastrous, and she tells Bellamy about it later, after he pushes her against the wall of an abandoned supply closet.

His hair is ruffled, and her lips are swollen, but she tells him everything; tells him what she should have told him that night in his truck, or later in her bedroom, when he snuck through her window and made her bite down on his shoulder to keep from waking up the entire fucking campus.

She's breathless when she finishes, and he zips up his pants, looking at her.

"They're aware of how sexually fulfilled you are and the first person they suspect isn't me?"

Clarke drops her head against the door. "Bellamy."

He grins. "Yeah, yeah, be serious." He lifts her shirt from the ground and gives it to her, ruffling a hand through his hair. "Guess it's too late to teach my sister about boundaries, huh?"

"I would assume so," she mumbles. "Hiding in my closet and waiting to catch me in the act might be a little irreversible."

Bellamy sighs. "Children, these days."

She shakes her head and pulls on her sweater, watching as he does the same, covering his tanned skin with his navy blue button-up. She exhales when she notices the indent in his collar, and she steps towards him, smoothing it over.

He looks down at her. "So this really is something to be cautious about."

"I've already told you this," she mumbles, adjusting his shirt. "You don't listen."

"Oh, I listen. I just found it hard to believe anything you were saying since, you know, your breath smelled like vodka cranberries and you couldn't untangle yourself from a seat belt."

She scoffs. "That did not - "

"And let's not forget about the cat," he reminds her.

"It was very easily mistaken for a person."

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. "It was a _cat_ , Clarke."

She huffs, flattening the collar against his shoulders. _God damn vodka cranberries_. They're her weakness; her kryptonite. Vodka cranberries and Bellamy's ruffled hair. The deadliest combination.

He grins at her scowl, poking at her mouth. "Listen, it's not the end of the world," he tells her, and she crosses her arms over her chest. "We'll just have to be more careful."

She looks at him. "Right. So, for the last God damn time, that means no hickeys."

"I'm aware."

She raises her eyebrows and lifts the hem of her shirt, exposing the hickeys that cover her chest.

Bellamy shrugs. "I get distracted."

"I'm aware," she grumbles.

He smirks, that trademark Blake grin; the same one Octavia had when she suspected Clarke's been sleeping with someone. He steps towards her and places her hands on his shoulders, lowering his head to her height.

"Okay, fine. No hickeys. You got it." He sighs and shakes her form slightly, eyes hardening at the sight of her frown. "But that means no more worrying. We got this in the bag, Griffin."

He continues to shake her shoulders, harder and harder until she rolls her eyes, her lips turning up at the corners. He grins and releases her, muttering about seeing her at his party on the weekend before opening the door of the supply closet, and walking into the empty hallway.

She follows him out eight minutes later.

(She blames it on their attempts to be more careful; not the fact that she needed to calm her racing heart).

* * *

 

v.

Clarke stands in front of her mirror, adjusting the straps on her tank top. A cold wind breezes through the open window, and she brushes her curls over her shoulders, humming the lyrics to the Drake song blasting through her speakers.

The door to her bedroom opens, and Clarke claps her hands together, turning towards the people at the doorframe.

"Finally! I was worried O got lost in the wine section again. I hope you got the tequila. You know I can't be in the same room with Finn without the - "

She stops; eyes widening when she notices the third person standing behind Raven and Octavia. Her mouth tightens.

"Gina," she mutters. "I didn't know you were coming."

Raven shrugs. "We found her at the beer store, figured she'd want to get ready with us." She steps forward and places the bag of alcohol on the bed. "You should have seen her - she was like a little puppy. So we decided to adopt her for the night."

Gina laughs. Clarke smiles tightly. _Yay_.

"I hope you don't mind," Gina says, and Clarke frowns, because her kindness is unnerving. "I bought a case of beer. O told me you liked beer."

Octavia nods. "Clarke loves beer."

"I do." She crosses her arms over her chest and purses her lips. "Thank you."

Gina smiles, and she peels the coat from her shoulders, hanging it on the door. Her arms are bare with the low cut shirt she's wearing, and her jeans are low-waisted, trimmed off at the ankles.

Clarke sighs heavily. She's _gorgeous_.

Raven turns to her. "Is that what you're wearing, Griffin?"

Clarke looks down at her white tank top. "Yeah," she mumbles, fidgeting with the hem. "I think so."

"Good. Your tits look great in it."

"They really do," Gina adds, and Clarke resists the urge to roll her eyes.

Octavia exhales deeply. "Seriously. I wish I had tits like that." She pulls down the end of her crop top and grabs a beer from her case. "If I did, maybe Lincoln wouldn't be so damn afraid to ask me out."

Gina raises an eyebrow. "That guy still hasn't made a move yet?"

"Nope. He's in Bell's frat, keeps talking about how he'd break the bro code, and all that shit."

Clarke looks at her and places her hand on her shoulder. She's been into Lincoln for months, and he's been into her, but Bellamy has a thing for being the overprotective big brother. Always loving too much, the freckled bastard.

"I mean, he does have a point," Gina mumbles. "I would freak out if one of my friends was hooking up with my brother."

Clarke presses her lips together. "Why? It's just sex."

"It's never just sex with O," Raven says from the desk chair, and she points an accusing finger at her. "It's dinner dates, and breakfast in the morning - taking care of each other when one of them is sick."

"Oh, so you mean like you and Wick?" Clarke teases.

"Fuck off."

Octavia huffs. "Excuse me for wanting to be appreciated."

"Have you seen his body?" Raven waves a hand in front of her face. "He'd appreciate you just by letting you touch him."

"Don't remind me."

Gina laughs, her tone matching the lightness in the room. She takes a sip of her beer and sits on the bed, her fingers running along the softness of her comforter. Clarke narrows her eyes, remembering what other hands have been on her mattress.

"I'm not really into the abs," Gina claims, crossing her legs. "Arms are the turn on for me."

Octavia shrugs. "Lincoln has nice arms."

"Your _brother_ has nice arms."

Clarke clutches her beer. Octavia makes a face.

"Gross," she mumbles.

Clarke nods, lips pressed together. "So gross."

Gina giggles, tilting the bottle to her mouth again. She takes a gulp, and Clarke glances at the beer in her hand, realizing how bad it tastes and how much she hates it, hates the beer that Gina brought.

She hates it now, and she tells herself it doesn't have to do with Gina, not at all; tells herself she hates it even though she's been drinking that beer ever since Bellamy introduced it to her years ago.

* * *

 

vi.

Clarke lifts her curls from the back of her neck, warmth spreading across her skin as she stands in the living room. She clutches her wine cooler into her side and leans towards Raven, who wraps herself around Wick as she presses her lips against her ear.

"I'm grabbing some water," she shouts, because the music is loud and her ears are ringing. "You want any?"

Raven shakes her head and huddles closer into Wick's chest. Clarke looks at him, and he shrugs, smiling at her as he holds Raven closer against him, his hair ruffled by the previous action of her roaming hands.

Clarke shakes her head. _The damn idiots are in love_.

She grins and enters the crowd herded in the hallway, the staircase occupied by college girls experimenting with each other as freshmen douchebags stare at them in amazement. She spots Octavia and Gina talking to unfamiliar people in the corner, and she rolls her eyes, shoving one of the boys to the side as she squeezes from the group.

The boy steps away, and she stumbles into the kitchen, her unbalanced body colliding into a solid chest.

"Clarke. Long time no see, sugar."

She frowns. She knows that voice. She _hates_ that voice.

She huffs, her eyes hardening as she looks up at the face in front of hers. He doesn't look any different, his hair still stupid and shaggy, his smile still so smug she wants to punch it off his face. Her fists clench at her sides. She can't afford to ruin Bellamy's rug again.

"Finn," she hisses, and she leans away from him. "Long time no see, asshole."

He scrunches his nose. "Asshole? Come on, I thought we were friends."

Clarke almost laughs. "I guess so," she mutters, and she crosses her arms over her chest, tilting the cup of tequila to her mouth. "I mean, it's common to dream about punching friends in the face, right?"

"That sounds problematic. You should get that checked," he tells her.

" _You_ should get checked."

He chuckles, and she clenches her hands tighter. "Come on, Tiny Tank, don't be so - "

There's a feeling of instant dampness as water suddenly collides with her body, cold and clinging to her shirt. She gasps, glancing from Finn's wide glare to the tanned face behind her, those familiar brown eyes clouded with mischievousness.

She presses her lips together. "Blake."

Bellamy smirks. "Oh. Griffin." He loosens the water bottle in his hand, pulling it away from her. "Didn't see you there."

She stares at him, the corners of her mouth twitching. She crosses her arms over her chest, not missing his hungry glare as he glances at her white tank top, his fingers tightening on her shoulder.

"You just spilled water on me."

"I know," he tells her.

"And now I'm soaked."

"I'm aware."

She raises an eyebrow. " _Really_ soaked."

Finn shakes her head and steps towards her. "Are you crazy? You're not soaked," he says, but she doesn't look at him, her eyes remaining on Bellamy's smirk. "I can't even see a stain. You have to - "

Clarke covers her hand over his mouth. "You owe me a shirt."

Bellamy clears his throat. "Fine," he grunts, and he glances at Finn as she peels her hand from his face. "So very sorry to interrupt your conversation, Collins, but Clarke's very wet, and I need to take care of it."

Finn narrows his eyes, and Clarke sneers at him, following Bellamy out of the kitchen. They rush up the stairs, where the music is quieter and the hallway is empty, and she turns to him, a laugh on her lips, when he pushes her against the door of his bedroom.

Clarke sighs and threads her hands through his hair.

"Spilling water down my shirt?" she questions, rubbing the damp material against him. "Not your best method."

Bellamy shrugs. "It got you away from him, didn't it?"

"It did."

"So you're welcome," he murmurs, and then his lips are on hers.

She laughs into his mouth. He swallows the sound, the taste of beer and lime on his tongue. His hands wrap around her thighs, lifting her against the wood, and she gasps; fingers reaching for the doorknob as he -

There's another male voice, cursing, and Bellamy stills against her.

"Fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't - "

Clarke turns to him. "Miller?"

Miller smiles. "Clarke. Hey."

"What's up?"

"I had to make a new playlist, Jasper's been playing too much Taylor Swift since Maya broke up with him," he tells her. Clarke hovers a hand over her heart. "You coming back down after?"

"I think so," she says.

"Good. You owe me a vodka cranberry."

Clarke rolls her eyes, and he winks at her before disappearing down the hallway. She huffs and turns back to Bellamy.

"What the hell just happened?"

"Oh, Miller?" She shrugs, running her palms under the hem of his shirt. "Don't worry, he already knows."

He raises an eyebrow. "And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

Clarke presses her lips together and shakes her head. "Probably not," she whispers, and her hand hovers his belt buckle, finger curling into the loops. "But I have a few ideas what would."

He smiles and curses under his breath, leaning forward to capture her lips in his. She trails her hand beneath the rim of his pants as he pushes the door open, kicking it closed behind him and lowering her onto the bed.

He does feel better after that. _Obviously_.

* * *

 

vii.

He's asleep when she rolls off the mattress a couple hours later.

She winces as her feet touch the floor, a low squeak sounding at the pressure in the quiet room. Her toes spread out against the wood, and she lifts herself from the bed, stepping over their thrown clothes to gather her tank top and pants.

She pulls them on quickly and glances at the clock on his bedside table. 4:09 am. Good enough.

Clarke sighs. She glances at Bellamy, his tanned body motionless under the covers. Her bottom lip is raw from his teeth, and she stares at him, observing the places of skin where her mouth has been, the places she's yet to explore, places she craves to -

She shakes her head. _Shut up, shut up. Shut. Up_.

She huffs, pulling open his bedroom door. The hallway is empty, and she enters it, feet light on the floorboards as she crosses the line of bedrooms towards the stairs. The house is quiet, the previous hum of music fading, and she steps into the kitchen to walk towards the front door across the -

She collides into a warm body. There's a low squeak, and a curse, and Clarke glances at the person in front of her.

Her eyes widen. _Octavia_.

"Clarke?"

She shakes her head. "O?"

Octavia stares at her, her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair is ruffled, messy, and she squints into the darkness of the kitchen, rubbing her palms against her flushed cheeks.

"What are you doing here?" she demands.

Clarke gapes at her. "What are you doing - " she hesitates, noticing a small shadow on her collarbone, and she smacks her shoulder. Octavia mutters under her breath. "Shit. You totally slept with Lincoln."

"I did not sleep with Lincoln," Octavia hisses.

"Fine. Kissed him. Hooked up with him. _Whatever_."

Octavia scoffs. "Piss off. Who's bed did you come from? Murphy's? Connor's?" She scrunches her nose and places her hands on her hips. "I didn't even see you the entire damn party, not after I saw you and Bellamy go upstairs to - "

Her eyes widen. Pupils blown. Clarke slams her hand against her forehead.

 _Fuck_.

She feels dizzy - is she fainting? Her heart stops. Octavia stares at her.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay folks! That's chapter six - what'd you think? Liked it? LOVED it? Can't wait to hear your thoughts below. It's been so fun writing this chapter, and I'm looking forward to writing the next one. How much do you think Octavia will freak out? (I'll give you a hint, Bellamy will freak out a lot more).
> 
> Anyways, I really do hope you like this chapter, because it might be a while before I post the next one. My semester is coming to an end and I'm suffocating with assignments. Hopefully I'll find some time to write, but no guarantees. You can follow me twitter Bellarke95 for updates.
> 
> I hope you all had a great week and an even better Easter. Looking forward to interacting again with you soon.
> 
> Cheers. xoxo.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Time for the real deal! Here's the next chapter of Friends (With Benefits)! Again - so sorry for not posting sooner. School and work and my social life were in desperate need of my attention. Honestly can't believe I was able to even catch up on the 100 I've been so stressed and busy LOL! But no worries, I'm back with a new chapter and many more chapters to come!
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoy this one. Starts where the previous chapter left off. Much love xo

i.

"Octavia. _Octavia_!"

Clarke reaches for her wrist, stumbling onto the wood as they step off the stairs. She curses, curling her fingers around Octavia's arm and pulling her from the direction of Bellamy's room.

"Calm down!" Clarke hisses, because _fuck_ \- they're screwed, they're totally screwed. "You're acting like a crazy person!"

"You're boning my brother and _I'm_ the crazy one?"

Clarke scoffs, and Octavia shoves her, peeling her hands from her skin. _Fucking ninja_. She runs towards the bedroom door, the bedroom door Clarke was just pressed against only hours earlier, and she twists her hand on the knob, pushing it open.

Clarke curses and runs after her, arriving just in time to see Octavia pull the covers from Bellamy's bed.

He grumbles, his eyes fluttering open as she rips the remaining sheet from his body. Clarke notices the irritation in his glare as Octavia reaches for him, and she shakes her head, watching as she drags him from the mattress by his ear.

Bellamy scowls. "The fuck, O?"

"Clarke?" she barks, clutching his face between her hands. "Are you serious?"

Bellamy's eyes widen. He glances at Clarke.

She raises her hands. "Oops."

"You guys are fucking insane," Octavia mutters. "My best friend and my brother are secret _fucking lovers_."

Bellamy winces. "Not lovers."

"Yeah," Clarke agrees, nodding. "Don't be dramatic, I don't even like the kid."

Octavia groans, dropping her forehead against her palm, and Bellamy rolls his eyes.

"How long has this been going on?" she demands, and she steps away from them, pulling at her hair. "Days? Months? Have you done it anywhere near my bed? Because if you have, I'll fucking ring you up by your panties, Griffin."

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. "Yikes."

"Yeah, _yikes_. So spill. What the fuck is going on?"

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm not saying anything until you calm your crazy ass down."

"Calm _my_ crazy ass down? Are you - "

There's a light knock on the bedroom door, and Octavia huffs as she turns away from them, placing her hands on her hips. It pushes open, and Lincoln enters, his chest exposed with a tin white t-shirt and his eyes wide with concern.

Clarke glances at Octavia, watching the tightening of her jaw.

"Is everything okay? I heard yelling." He looks at Octavia and raises an eyebrow. "O? What are you still doing here? I thought you were just leaving - "

Octavia shakes her head, her eyes wide as she waves her hands. Lincoln narrows his gaze, and then he glances at Bellamy, muttering as he watches the tightening of his mouth, the intensity of his set shoulders.

Bellamy stares at them, his eyes burning in that familiar way Clarke knows too well. And so does Octavia, because she curses as his glare hardens.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Clarke closes her eyes, tilting her head to the ceiling. "Dear God."

He steps towards them. "Octavia," he hisses, and she crowds closer against Lincoln. "What. Is he. Talking about?"

Octavia grimaces. She glances at Clarke, who shakes her head and looks at Bellamy, who literally won't stop fucking sending daggers towards Lincoln, who is just standing there like he just got a kick to his groin and - shit, this isn't going to end well.

She watches as Bellamy clenches his hands into fists, and yeah, this _really_ isn't going to end well.

"Uhm." Octavia looks between them, and Bellamy tilts his head. "After party?"

Bellamy releases a long exhale, cursing under his breath.

"You slept with my little sister?" he accuses, and Clarke steps in front of him, pressing a hand against his chest.

Lincoln raises his hands. "Listen, man - "

"My _sister_ ," he hisses, and Lincoln looks like he's about to piss his God damn pants with the fear in his eyes. "You've got to be fucking kidding - "

There's a thud against the bedroom door, and Raven enters the room, her hair untamed and falling from her ponytail. Wick follows in behind her, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he ruffles a shirt over his head.

"I don't know who the fuck is yelling this early in the morning but - "

Raven pauses as she observes the room, her eyes glancing from Clarke's hand on Bellamy's chest Octavia's wide eyes. She crosses her arms over her stomach. "What the hell is going on here?"

Clarke swallows thickly, looking at them.

Well, _shit_.

* * *

 

ii.

Raven stands in front of them, her hands placed on her hips as she taps her foot along the padded floor.

The room is quiet - tense, and she can feel Bellamy's rage radiating from his skin, almost as powerful as the shivers of terror that Lincoln has been vibrating on the bed. Clarke sighs deeply and fidgets on the mattress, her knee bumping against Bellamy as her shoulder brushes Octavia's arm.

Raven squints at them, and Wick taps his chin as he stands beside her.

"So," she whispers, and God this is too familiar. And awkward.

Lincoln releases a long breath. "So."

Wick claps his hands together, and Clarke winces at the sound.

"So - which one of you have been boning?"

Bellamy tenses beside her. "O, I swear to God if you've been - "

"What are you going to do?" Octavia hisses, and she leans over Clarke to point an accusing finger against her brother's chest. "You going to lock me up for having a crush?"

" _Yes_."

Raven huffs and presses her hand against Octavia's forehead, pushing her back. "Enough, child," she turns to Bellamy and crosses her arms over her chest. "Let's start with you two dumb asses. Bellamy, Clarke. Explain yourselves."

"There's nothing to explain," Clarke groans.

Bellamy nods in agreement. "Yeah, there really isn't. All we've been doing is fucking."

" _Bellamy_."

Octavia wrinkles her nose, and Wick bumps his fist against his shoulder. "No fucking way, man," he chuckles. He raises his hand, and Clarke pushes Bellamy's arm down before he can return the high five. "How long has it been?"

Bellamy shrugs. "I don't know."

Raven shakes her head and turns to Clarke. She sighs.

"The first time it happened was at the party I tackled Roma," Clarke tells them.

"What?" Octavia exclaims. "It's been months since that party!"

"Then we've been sleeping together for months."

Raven presses her lips together. "Bullshit," she says, and her glare is strong, calculating as she glances between them. "There's no way you two have been screwing for months without murdering each other."

"We've found different ways to spend our energy," Bellamy winks.

Octavia's face flushes, the redness in her cheeks indicating her disgust. She feigns a gag, and Clarke rolls her eyes, crossing her legs over the sheets as Raven stares at Bellamy approvingly.

"Interesting," she whispers, and he smirks that signature Blake smirk. "Good for you, Bell. As for Griffin - you could do better."

Clarke laughs, nudging his shoulder, and he mutters under his breath.

Raven huffs, stretching her neck. "Okay. Onto the next idiots." She turns to Octavia and Lincoln, clicking her teeth, and Bellamy tenses again on the mattress. "Lincoln. O. What's the status?"

"There is none," Octavia grumbles.

Bellamy narrows his eyebrows. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Octavia scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "What do you think it means? There's no status. No damn label - zippo, nothing, nada." She huffs, and Lincoln nods his head wildly in agreement. "We like each other. That's it."

"Like _screwing_ each other?"

Octavia closes her eyes. "Bell - "

There's a loud exhale, and then Lincoln lifts himself from the mattress, his hand peeling from Octavia's grip. He stands beside Raven, and the poor guy looks fucking terrified, even with muscles as big as Bellamy's and with height as tall as his.

It's quiet (except for Wick's humming and Bellamy's old man grunts), and Lincoln straightens his posture. "Blake. Listen, I - "

" _Lincoln_ ," Octavia hisses.

He shakes his head. "It's fine," he whispers, and Octavia presses her lips together, dropping forehead into her hands. He turns back to Bellamy. "I'm sorry, all right? I never meant to go behind your back, but your sister - she's a great girl. And I like her. And I would never disrespect her, I promise you that."

He huffs, the tension in his shoulders releasing as he finishes speaking. He nods at Bellamy, and Clarke watches the contrast of Octavia's softening gaze to the hardening of Bellamy's glare. He stands from the mattress, matching Lincoln's height with his own.

Lincoln grins, extending his hand towards him. "We good?"

Bellamy chuckles, low, and leans forward to snap his fist across Lincoln's jaw.

Octavia screams, pushing from the bed as he stumbles backwards from the blow. Wick whistles under his breath, cursing, and Raven smacks him, rushing towards Octavia to help steady Lincoln's body.

Clarke groans, tilting her head towards the ceiling.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

* * *

 

iii.

She closes the front door behind her as she enters the kitchen. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, loose strands covering the frame over her face, and she huffs, dumping the melted ice pack into the sink.

Bellamy sits on one of the kitchen stools, avoiding her gaze.

Clarke sighs. "Well, nothing's broken."

He glances at her, the swollen patches beneath his eyes an indication of her matching exhaustion. He looks pained, and she's glad, because she could have went to bed hours ago - but instead she had to spend the remainder of the night patching Lincoln's jaw and trying to calm down a murderous Octavia.

Bellamy rests his hand on the counter, and she notices the purple shading of a bruise on his skin.

"How unfortunate," he whispers, and she gives him a look.

"Bellamy."

He shrugs his shoulders, expressionless; because that's who he is - Mr. Tough Guy who likes acting tough to avoid looking weak. She exhales sharply and walks towards the freezer, removing more cubes of ice and dropping it into a Ziploc bag as she approaches him.

She settles onto the stool beside him and reaches for his hand. He draws it away from her.

"Damn it, Blake," she hisses, leaning forward to cup his wrist. "Don't be a drama queen."

He scoffs. "I'm not being a - "

She drops the pack of ice onto his bruised knuckles, placing it on the skin, and he winces.

Clarke raises an eyebrow, watching him. "You were saying?"

Bellamy scowls, the pressure of the ice and the situation weighing on his features. She looks at him and pads the pack along his skin, her fingers tightening around his wrist as he stares blankly at her cold trail.

"You know," she begins, pursing her lips. "If it helps, they didn't actually have sex."

Bellamy wrinkles his nose. "That doesn't help."

She sighs longingly. "Too bad. Lincoln really likes your sister," she tells him.

He nods. "I'm sure."

"And your sister really likes him."

He draws his eyes away from the redness of his skin, tilting his head to look at her. His jaw is locked, tight, and he's silent as he observes her expression, eyebrows narrowing in the dimness of the kitchen.

"What are you trying to say, Clarke?" he says.

She presses her lips together. "I'm trying to say that - " she releases a low breath, glaring at him. "If anyone is going to screw this up, it's going to be you."

"He's hooking up with my sister. What'd you expect me to do, hug the man?"

"No," she tells him. "But I didn't expect you to punch him."

He huffs, stubborn. "Yeah, well. I didn't expect you to punch Roma that one night, either," he grumbles.

Clarke raises an eyebrow. It's funny - not in a laughing matter but funny in a fucked up way - how each of them have ended up in this situation before. How the previous time this happened they were in different positions, they were different people to each other.

"Well. Looks like we both need new ways of handling confrontation," she whispers.

He smiles at that. Only a little. "Guess so."

She grins at him, continuing to press the ice pack along the bruised parts of his skin. It's silent for a couple moments as he watches her, his eyes trailing the simple motions before sighing deeply, his shoulders dropping.

"She hates me. Doesn't she?"

Clarke thinks of Octavia, all venom in her words and plans for murder. "She'll get over it."

Bellamy shakes his head. "Impossible."

"She will. As long as you apologize. To both of them."

"Bullshit," he hisses.

Clarke narrows her eyes. "What do you mean bullshit?"

"I'm not the one that has to apologize."

"Excuse me?" She presses the ice pack deeper into his skin, and he winces. "You think she's the one that has to apologize? Or Lincoln? As if you punching him is okay?" Her eyes widen as she nods mockingly. "That makes so much more sense."

Bellamy exhales. "Piss off."

"You know I'm right."

"You're not right," he grumbles.

She flicks the edge of his jaw. "I am. And now you're being grumpy about it."

"I'm grumpy because you're tearing my knuckles open."

"Tough," she says, "you did that to yourself."

"Your bedside manners are horrible."

"Better than yours."

Bellamy huffs, leaning further against the counter as she brushes the corners of the ice along his hand. The skin is red from the repeated impact, and she removes the pack from the bruising, allowing the swelling to breathe.

He glances at her, and she sighs deeply, running her thumb along his palm.

"She's your sister," she reminds him, voice soft in the quietness of the room. "You'll figure it out."

He considers her for a moment, gaze calculating. "Would you believe me if I told you I did it to protect her?"

"Yes. Still don't think you should have punched the poor kid."

"It was on impulse," he defends.

Clarke smiles knowingly. "You're the protective big brother, I get it." She taps her finger along his skin, remembering the time in high school when he chased Octavia's ex-boyfriend through the halls after he found out he cheated on her. "Act first, think later - that's your thing."

Bellamy chuckles. His knee brushes against hers as he turns to her, looking at her in the way that burns all her strength and firmness. She chews on her bottom lip, stunned, because she never quite knows how to act when his eyes are so fixated on her face, when he's Bellamy, not the frat boy next door.

The door to the kitchen opens loudly, and Raven and Wick walk into the room, pausing when they notice them at the counter.

"Oh. Oops." Raven raises her hands slightly, stepping backwards. "You guys about to bone? We'll leave."

Bellamy shakes his head and steps off the stool. "It's fine. I'm about to head back."

Wick gapes at him shyly. "Probably not a good idea, man," he tells him, and Raven nods in agreement. "Octavia's staying at his place tonight. And I'm not too sure you're the face she wants to see right now."

Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose, and Clarke puts her hand on his shoulder.

"Just stay here tonight," she offers.

Bellamy nods. "Yeah," he whispers, running a hand through his curls. "I'll take the couch."

Clarke narrows her eyes. "Bell. Don't be ridiculous."

"It's fine, Clarke," he tells her.

"It's not - "

He tilts her chin. "It's fine."

She chews on her bottom lip, watching as he follows Wick out of the kitchen. He disappears into the living room, and she exhales deeply, crossing her arms over her chest. Raven raises her eyebrows knowingly.

"Looks like only one of us is getting laid tonight," she hums.

Clarke rolls her eyes, throwing the remaining ice pack at her as she laughs.

* * *

 

iv.

He's snoring when she finds him the next morning, mouth open and bruised hand curled on his chest.

She stands above him, hair still damp from the shower and mouth cold from brushing her teeth. It's early, and she knows he's a late sleeper, knows it from the days spent at Octavia's house, when he wouldn't leave his room until noon. Maybe eleven if there was breakfast.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip, whispering his name.

He doesn't move.

She huffs, tapping her foot. His jacket is balled up as a pillow beneath his head, and she settles the two mugs of coffee she's holding on the nearby side table. She lowers herself onto her knees beside him and pops her finger into her mouth, licking the skin before pulling it out and twisting it into his ear.

Bellamy's eyes open almost instantly, and he surges forward, his forehead slamming into hers.

" _Ow_! Fucking - " Clarke swears, rubbing the sensitive skin. "God _damn_ , Blake."

He blinks rapidly, glancing at her. "Griffin?" His voice is rough with sleep, and she tilts her head on the cushion. "What the hell is wrong with you? Did you just give me a fucking wet willy?"

"I was trying to wake you up," she hisses. "Maybe I should have just kicked you."

Bellamy groans and falls back onto the couch. "Not the morning from you I was looking forward to."

Clarke rolls her eyes. Fucking cheeky bastard. She curses him, reaching towards the mug that remains on the coffee table. His eyes follow her movement, and he shifts his body when she moves onto the couch, holding her forehead as she slouches beside him on the cushion.

"Here." She hands him the cup of coffee. "Drink."

He looks at her. "You poison it?"

Clarke shakes her head. "Tempting," she mumbles, "but no." He continues to stare at her, skeptical, and she exhales. "There is medicine in there, though. For your hand. And your forehead."

"My hand is fine."

She pursues her lips. "It's not. You need to decrease the swelling, or it'll - "

There's a slamming of wood as the front door opens, revealing the morning sun in the background. Clutter of footsteps sounds in the hallway, and Octavia appears in the entrance of the living room, her eyes narrowing when she notices them on the couch.

Bellamy settles the cup of coffee between his thighs as Octavia crosses her arms over her chest.

"Oh, look," she mutters, and Clarke winces at the venom that remains in her tone. "It's my awesome big brother and the girl he's been sleeping with. I guess I should punch her."

"Octavia," Bellamy growls.

Clarke lifts herself from the couch. "That's enough. O, stop being dramatic," she says, and Octavia tilts her head to the ceiling, rolling her eyes. "Just come over here so we can talk. Please."

She scoffs. "Like hell."

She turns from them, walking past the living room and onto the stairs. Clarke sighs and glances at Bellamy. He shrugs, nodding, and she rushes up the steps behind her, catching the bedroom door before it's slammed close.

Clarke chews on her bottom lip. It's silent except for the harsh wind against her window.

"You need to forgive him."

Octavia laughs loudly, still facing away from her. "You're joking, right? Tell me you're joking."

Clarke exhales and steps forward. "Listen - I get it, okay? What he did was wrong." Very wrong, stupidly fucking wrong, though that's not what she's here to discuss. "But he's your brother, and he's sorry."

"Well, I'd assume you would know. Since you're the one screwing him and all."

She closes her eyes. "O - "

Octavia turns towards her then, and Clarke winces at the disappointment in her glare.

"Why wouldn't you just tell me?" she demands, and Clarke realizes she needs forgiveness as much as Bellamy does. "We tell each other everything, Clarke! You know I wouldn't care. Hell - I thought you two would have started fucking years ago."

Clarke runs a hand through her damp curls. "I know! I know, okay? But it happened at the party, and I wanted it to be the last time but - " She exhales deeply and shakes her head. "Then it just kept on happening and happening and happening and - "

"I get it."

Clarke sighs. "I'm sorry, O. I should have told you."

Octavia nods. She stares at her, calculating, her teeth rubbing into her lower lip.

"Do you like him?"

Clarke almost laughs. "It's Bellamy."

"Trust me, I get how much of an asshole he can be," she tells her, and Clarke almost laughs, remembering the way she almost attacked him last night. Octavia narrows her glare. "But that's not what I meant."

Clarke swallows thickly, because - she _knows_ that's not what she meant. Knows exactly what Octavia is asking. But it doesn't mean that Clarke is prepared for it, for any of the questions she'll be asked now. It doesn't mean she knows any of the answers.

She presses her lips together; shrugging. "It's just sex."

Octavia stares at her, and Clarke crosses her arms over her chest.

"I'm serious," she affirms, straightening her posture. "Friends with benefits. That's it."

Octavia raises her eyebrows. "Fine."

"Fine."

It's silent for a moment. Clarke glances at the alcohol stain on the carpet, the one that Raven spilled months ago.

"How's Lincoln doing?" she asks.

Octavia tenses at the question. "Eye's swollen. But."

Clarke shakes her head. _God damn it, Bellamy._

"I'm not forgiving him, you know," she hisses, and the teasing in her voice is gone, replaced with the signature Blake stubbornness. "I'm never speaking to him ever again. _You_ can tell him that."

"Octavia - "

She raises her hand. "No way, don't even try. You're lucky I'm even speaking to you for being affiliated with him." She places her hands on her hips, and Clarke really hates that Bellamy's stubborn streak passed on to his sister.

"So then what the hell do you want me to do?" she grouses.

Octavia waves a hand towards her. "Tell him to leave, please," she suggests, and Clarke sighs in frustration. "Because I'm hungry as hell, and I'd rather not look at his face while I eat my leftover pogos."

Clarke shakes her head, exiting into the hallway.

He's already gone when she returns to the living room.

* * *

 

v.

Six days. That's how long it's been since Bellamy and Octavia have spoken.

_Six. Fucking. Days._

That's almost a week. Almost a full God damn week of dividing herself between accommodating to her best friend while also making sure her not-friend-with-benefits doesn't doesn't do something else stupid to make it worse.

(Which also leads to it being almost a week without sex, but Clarke tries to pretend that doesn't affect her).

She huffs, dropping her backpack onto the living room floor and collapsing on the couch. Raven glances at her from the other side of the cushion and reaches forward, handing her a sip of her beer.

"You seem sexually frustrated."

Clarke purses her lips. Guess she hasn't been good at hiding it.

She lifts the beer bottle to her mouth. "How'd you figure that one out so quick?"

"You've been tense, more tense than in the last couple of weeks you've been fooling around with Blake." She shrugs and flips through the channels on the television. "Plus Wick says Bellamy's been acting like he needs to get laid, too. I can do the math."

Clarke sighs, pressing her hand to her forehead. It's not that she wants to stop having sex with him (or that he wants to stop having sex with her), but it's that any time they're alone, even for a second, they bicker about Octavia.

Octavia said this, Octavia told me to say that. They argue about how the fight needs to end, _why_ it needs to end; about how he needs to pull his head out of his God damn ass and apologize to her.

She groans inwardly, straightening her position on the couch.

"I need to fix this," she mumbles, and not just for the sex, but for them. "How can I fix this?"

"You can't. Let the idiots figure it out themselves," Raven tells her.

Clarke shakes her head. "You know they won't."

"I blame Bellamy for that."

She sighs heavily. "Me, too."

Raven smiles sympathetically, leaning forward to pat her knee. Clarke turns towards the television - she doesn't even know what she's watching; some dumb scene from _Scream Queens_ with Abigail Breslin yelling frantically in a broken down car - and tilts her head against the cushion.

"Maybe they'll surprise you," Raven tells her. "I mean, Bellamy is bound to break some time, maybe they'll - "

Clarke raises her hand. "Wait." She shifts towards her and places her hands on either side of Raven's face. "I have an idea," she mutters, shaking her, "but I'm going to need your assistance."

Raven rolls her eyes and raises the bottle to her lips, finishing the beer.

"Duh," she answers, and Clarke smiles devilishly.

* * *

 

vi.

Bellamy lowers the hood of her car, brushing the oil onto his pants.

"Your engine is fine," he tells her. His hair is curled at the edge of his forehead from the heat, and she swallows thickly, averting her gaze. "Nothing's stalled. You probably just hit the brakes too hard."

Clarke presses her lips together. It's nearing the late night, and the dirt road they're parked on limits them from any streetlights, but she can still see the shine of grease that smudges across his face. Her fingers itch at her side.

"Are you sure?" she questions, and she glances at the time on the dashboard. _Come on_. "It's been making really weird noises."

Bellamy settles his hand on her waist. "It's nothing to worry about, alright?" He braces her shoulders and turns her towards the direction of her car, walking closely behind her. "Go on. Try starting it."

She shifts in his arms to face him. "What if it blows up? It can blow up if the engine is fried."

"It's not going to blow up," he reassures her.

"The hell do you know? You're not a mechanic."

Bellamy huffs, the headlights from his truck glowing in the near distance.

"If you didn't trust my judgement, then why did you call me in the first place?" he questions.

Clarke shrugs her shoulders. "My car stalled in the middle of a dirt road," she explains, "you've seen _Dateline_." She can almost feel his exasperated glare on her, even in the darkness. "Sounds like something you could handle. You know, since you have a good track record of punching people."

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "Just start the damn car."

She sighs heavily and turns back in the direction her vehicle, glancing at the end of the street. _They should be fucking here by now_. She curses, whipping towards Bellamy again, her chest bumping into his.

"What about my tires? It could be my tires."

He narrows his eyes, staring at her. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing," she tells him. His glare hardens. "I just like being safe."

"Clarke."

She looks up at him. "Tires, and that's it. Please?"

Bellamy huffs. He mutters under his breath, shaking his head, and walks to the other side of the car. Clarke follows him, kneeling beside him as he lowers himself to the ground, squeezing the density of the tire.

Headlights appear at the end of the street, and Clarke sighs in relief. Bellamy lifts his head when he hears the car park behind them, and he releases a long breath when he see's Octavia emerge from the passenger seat, Lincoln trailing close behind her.

"Clarke?" Octavia's voice fills the empty road, the clutter of her footsteps ranging closer. "Are you okay? Raven said you were - "

She rounds the side of the car, her eyes landing on Bellamy. She stiffens.

"You've got to be fucking joking."

Clarke smiles, raising her hands. "Surprise."

Octavia scoffs. She crosses her arms over her stomach, irritation set in the space between her eyebrows. She wraps her hand around Lincoln's arm, stepping backwards, and Clarke reaches for her, pulling her back against the car.

"Clarke! What the _hell_?"

She exhales sharply. "You're not going anywhere." She turns to Bellamy as he lifts himself from the ground, eyes set on Lincoln. "Neither of you are. We're settling this - right fucking now."

"Griffin," Octavia groans.

Clarke shakes her head, pushing her forward. "This is happening," she mutters. "Both of you - speak."

It's silent. Bellamy brushes his feet against the dirt.

"God damn it," Clarke huffs, and she turns to him, arms crossed over her chest. "Bell, have anything you'd like to say?'

"Not really."

She raises her eyebrows. He exhales heavily and looks at Octavia.

"Sorry for punching your boyfriend," he mumbles.

Octavia shakes her head. "Sure," she snarls, and she turns to Clarke, tense. "We done, now?"

Clarke sighs. She glances at Bellamy, the guarded look that reflects his expression and - God damn it, it's ridiculous how fucking headstrong he is. She breathes deeply and nods towards Octavia, and the brunette grunts, pushing away from the car.

Bellamy steps forward. "O - " He groans, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Just - hold on."

She turns to him, her hands on her hips. Bellamy swallows thickly.

"Look, I'm sorry," he whispers. "For a lot of things."

Octavia crosses her arms over her chest. "You mean things such as punching my boyfriend in the face and invading my best friend's vagina without my blessing?"

Bellamy winces. "Yeah." He glances at Lincoln, nodding. "More so for the punching, though."

"Carry on."

He rubs his hand on the back of his neck. "I'm not good at these things."

"I know," Octavia says. "Which is why I am loving this."

He sighs, stepping forward. "Okay, listen - we're partners, right? We've always been a team." He places his hands on her shoulders. "But no one is ever going to be good enough for you. You know that. I know that."

"You won't even let him try," Octavia mumbles.

Bellamy shrugs. "Because he's a boy," he says. "And boys are idiots."

Clarke nods. "It's true."

Lincoln laughs, and the sound seems to encourage Octavia. She shakes her head, a smile creeping onto her lips, and God damn it this could have been solved weeks ago if the two idiots weren't suffocating in pride.

Bellamy breathes deeply. "You deserve everything, O. And I know I can't protect you from shit all the time but - "

"- but I'm your sister," Octavia says, and she rolls her eyes teasingly. "And you're always going to look after me."

He smiles. "And I'm always going to look after you."

Octavia laughs, and she nods, placing her hands on top of his. The headlights shine onto her face, and Clarke can see the glimmer of tears under the rim of her eyes, because that's the thing about the Blake siblings, they love as hard as they fight.

"That was stupid," she mutters, but she reaches up anyways, her arms locking around his neck as she hugs him. Bellamy rests his hands on her waist as he glances at Clarke, that stupid grin on his face.

* * *

 

vii.

She collapses onto the bed, body pressed against the sheets.

Clarke groans. "God damn," she whispers, and she closes her eyes, running her fingers along the familiar softness of the comforter. "Being the mediator is fucking exhausting."

Bellamy chuckles. He closes the bedroom door behind him and shuffles towards her, gaze bright under the darkness of his room. She watches him, and he stands at the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes and crawling onto the mattress.

He lays beside her, breathing deeply. "My hand still hurts."

Clarke snorts. "I figured," she says, and he turns his head to look at her. "You should have iced it. I kept telling you to ice it."

"I did ice it."

"Yeah," she grunts, "for _one_ night."

He smiles, shaking his head. It's silent for a moment, quiet except for their low breathing and the current night breeze against the window. It feels nice, content, and she presses her cheek into the mattress.

Bellamy glances at her. "I have a question."

"Lay it on me."

He purses his lips, calculating. "Why'd you go through all that trouble to get me and O to talk?" he asks her, and it's not accusing, just curious. "We would have forgiven each other eventually. You didn't have to do that."

Clarke shrugs. "You're brother and sister, I know how much this fight affected the both of you."

"Yeah, but it didn't have to affect you."

"It did, though," she tells him, and he raises an eyebrow. "We haven't had sex in days, and I figured this could score me some points."

Bellamy laughs. "Points? Trust me; you don't need to give me a reason to have sex with you."

"I'm aware."

He shakes his head, shifting on the mattress to face her. He leans forward, his lips soft as he touches them to hers, and she sighs deeply, missing this, the feel of his skin against hers.

He pulls away slightly and presses his forehead against her collar bone. "Thank you, by the way." He whispers the words into her neck, lips tracing her skin. "It was a dumb plan, but it worked."

"It totally worked," she whispers, and his breath is soft air against her. "But you know he's a good guy, right? More importantly, he's good to her."

He shifts to look at her. "And if he isn't?"

"Then you have my permission to kick his ass. Hell, I'd even join you."

He nods knowingly. "I'm aware."

She smiles, staring at him until the nerves in her stomach becomes too powerful to ignore. She kisses him, and he responds almost instantly, his mouth gaining pressure on hers as he moves above her, skin warm through his thin t-shirt.

It all feels familiar. Everything. The hands on her skin and the rhythm of their lips. She sighs, because she's craved this for days, and she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him closer against her.

He groans into her mouth, and she pauses, pulling back.

Bellamy looks at her. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. I - " She presses her swollen lips together, resting her hands on his chest. "I just realized that we don't have to sneak around anymore. No more hiding."

"Yeah," he mumbles. "I guess you're right."

Clarke swallows thickly. "With everything that happened this weekend, I kind of forgot."

Bellamy nods, and she thinks he forgot about it, too. Because, truth is - neither of them ever planned for this to happen. Never talked about what they would do if people found out, didn't even think they would make it that far.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. "Does it bother you?" she asks, "that everyone knows?"

"No," he tells her, and he glances at her collar, trailing his finger along the skin. "Why does it bother you?"

She breathes deeply, shaking her head.

"I'm not sure," she whispers, and it scares her that she doesn't know. Doesn't even understand what she wants. "It's just . . . there'll be so many questions. Questions that I don't think I have the answer to."

Bellamy looks at her, the kind of gaze that overwhelms her with warmth. His hand slides down her chest, ruffling through the material of her shirt as he brings it up again, running fingers along the length of her arm.

"You still want this, right?"

She nods. "Yeah. I still want this, but - " she sighs heavily, groaning as she hovers her arm above her forehead and closes her eyes. "I just don't know when I'm going to stop wanting this."

Bellamy lowers her hand and cups her cheeks. "When you want to stop, we'll stop. Okay?"

"Yeah," she whispers. "Okay."

She leans forward, pressing her lips to his, and he grunts, breathing her name as he pulls away.

"I didn't say stop," she grumbles.

"I get that. But you're laying on my hand."

Her eyes widen. "Oh."

"Still laying on it."

Clarke laughs, shoving at his chest. He rolls onto the mattress, sighing at the release of his bruised knuckles, and she crawls on top of him, her thighs pinning to each side of his waist.

She leans over him. "Better?"

He nods, pushing onto his elbows to kiss her. She presses a finger against his lips.

" _Clarke_ ," he hisses, closing his eyes. "I don't think I can handle any more interruptions."

She smiles. "I think you'll want to hear this," she whispers, and she pushes him onto the pillows, laying on top of him. "Because you know what else this means, right? There's no one to keep quiet for, no one to hide from. We can be however loud we want."

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. "Interesting."

She hums, leaning into him. "No more whispering, trying to not to make a sound." She presses a kiss to his neck, feeling him shudder beneath her. "I can scream your name, the entire house be damned - "

But he doesn't let her finish, because he surges forward and kisses her, mouth desperate and claiming her in urgency. She smiles, clinging to him, and her laughter is louder, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys! Chapter seven - YAY! What'd you guys think? Anybody sensing some real feelings between them? I know I am. It's my favourite part about writing this relationship - the whole 'i-think-i-like-you-but-i-dont-want-to-show-it' thing. Totally cannon.
> 
> Speaking of, last night's episode?! OMG. OBSESSED. What a performance by the entire cast. And not to mention those Bellarke scenes. I mean seriously, can somebody get me a bucket of ice? Cause they're too hot.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed the chapter! Might be another week or so before the next one, but then I'll be done school and the updates will come more frequently! Yay! Have a great weekend! xoxo.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty squad - I hope you don't hate me. I got distracted, and kept working, and I've been dealing with some crazy personal issues but I don't want to let any of ya'll down by not completing this story.
> 
> So here it is - new chapter of Friends (With Benefits). Hope it was worth the wait, xo.

i.

Three weeks. That's all it takes.

Three weeks, and everybody fucking knows.

She wishes it were an exaggeration, that she was being paranoid and overthinking - but she wasn't. It started small, with Harper, then Murphy, but it didn't hit her until Zoe Monroe came up to her in calculus to congratulate her did she realize she was screwed.

Like _completely screwed_. Screwed on a daily basis.

And _everybody fucking knew_.

And it's not because Octavia opened her damn mouth and bragged about how her brother is currently fucking her best friend, or because Raven decided to broadcast it on social media. Not even because Wick let it slip during a drunk night at the bar.

No. People know because - well. Clarke can be loud.

Like I-don't-even-know-how-I'm-not-waking-up-the-damn-president kind of loud.

It was almost embarrassing at first, how vocal she became. She knew Bellamy liked it, that it turned him on, and it's probably why she hated it so much - seeing him smile like he _knew_ what he was doing was good.

Even though it it was. Fuck. It was so, _so_ good.

"I think it's safe to say you enjoy this as much as I do," Bellamy told her one night after spending minutes with his face between her thighs. She slapped his arm, refusing, and he raised an eyebrow. "Unless you want me to stop."

Yeah. They didn't stop for a long time that night.

"You guys are bloody disgusting," Octavia told them the next morning, and Clarke smirked into her pancake. "Like God damn animals."

It wasn't the first complaint they got, but they definitely became more frequent. And it wasn't as though their attraction to each other was anything new, but it was different; they were more open. They didn't have to hide, or whisper, and he didn't have to sneak through her fucking window all the damn time.

Things changed - _they_ changed.

She craves him in ways that she never expected, and so does he; pressing her against the wooden wall as she pulls him into her bedroom.

"Took you long enough," she breathes.

He smirks against her lips. "I had an exam."

"Yeah, well," she hisses, "I'm horny."

"What a tragedy. I should have cut it short to come and please you."

"Not necessary. I can please myself just fine all on my own," she says, and he smirks. She hates that fucking smirk. "But you're presence helps speed up the process. Sex can do that, you know."

He raises an eyebrow. "Still sticking with the whole denial thing, huh? That's cute."

Clarke huffs, and she grips his shoulders to pull him into her. She presses her lips to his, heated and engaging, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks as he leans her tighter against the wall with the shell of his body.

She sighs, deepening the kiss with the stroke of her tongue. He opens his mouth for her, welcoming her with his warmth, and she likes kisses like this, kissing him like this - having him build her up before bringing her down, lips skilled and heavy with desire.

Bellamy groans, his hand traveling her skin to slip his fingers beneath her jeans.

He begins to rub against her, and she gasps, tilting her head against the wall.

" _Bellamy_."

He kisses her jaw. "Careful, Clarke." He releases her buttons and pushes her waistband down her thighs, stroking the inside of her panties. "You don't want to wake the neighbours."

She swallows thickly. "I can control myself."

"Can you?"

"Yeah." He teases her centre, and she closes her eyes, cursing. "But not unless you make me scream."

His glare darkens at her words, and he grins, devilish, lips curled in a familiar leer of trouble. He removes his hand from her underwear to pull them down her legs, and she whimpers, pants wrapped around her ankles as he presses into her.

He enters a finger inside her, agonizing slow, and she bites on his lip.

"Come on, Bell. Keep going."

A second one sinks into her, and he begins to move.

Clarke curses. She tangles her grip in the loose curls of his hair, pulling him close; his arm a tight space between them. His pace is steady, controlled, and she rolls her hips against his in desperation.

"Patience, Clarke," he whispers, and the huskiness of his voice only makes it worse. "Your want for me is showing."

She scoffs. "Only you can piss someone off during sex, Blake."

He chuckles, shifting them, grips her thigh and hitches it onto his hip. She moans at the new angle, and the pumping of his fingers becomes faster, almost electric, the motion so furious it escapes a cry from her lips.

"Bellamy. _Fuck_ , Bell."

His lips trails across her neck, biting and nibbling at the raw skin as his other hand grips her left breast against his palm. He squeezes, and his fingers continues to pump fiercely inside of her, and it's too much, there's so much to feel and want and -

She comes undone moments later with her mouth on his shoulder, shuddering into his neck.

Bellamy removes his hand once her breathing slows, and presses his lips against her ear.

"Tell me again about how well you please yourself."

She shakes her head. "Fuck off."

He laughs, a low rumble in his chest. It's a warm sound in the silence of their outcome, and she lifts her head from his shoulder, threading her fingers through the hair on his neck as she watches him.

"What about you?" she asks.

He looks at her. "What about me?"

"Do you think you can control yourself?"

Bellamy grins. "Depends on what you're suggesting."

She smirks, and his smile grows at the sight of hers, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. Their mouths are still swollen from before, and she kisses him gently, flattening her arm between them to loosen the waistband of his -

A knock slams against her bedroom door, startling them.

"God damn it, Clarke!" Octavia's shrill voice echoes from the other side of the wood, loud and pulsing with anger. "Stuff a sock in your mouth next time! You fucking _assholes_."

Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose. "Wear fucking headphones."

"No. Fuck you." She pushes against the wood again, vibrating the room. "And you Bellamy! Fuck you, too."

She slams the door once more, cursing, and her footsteps fade from the hallway.

Bellamy glances at Clarke, raising his eyebrows, and the laughter spills from her lips before his do. It's really not that funny, the fact that her best friend just heard her and her brother boning, but she laughs anyways, because she can, because Bellamy is laughing too.

* * *

 

ii.

"This is fucking impossible."

Bellamy sighs. He watches as she shifts the pancake batter across the frying pan, bubbles surfacing from her splattered pieces. Her wrist cramps from holding it, and she sighs, setting the pan onto the stove.

"I don't get it. Wick makes it look so easy." She places her hands on her hips. "Why is this so God damn difficult?"

Bellamy shrugs. "Because _you're_ so God damn difficult."

She huffs. Her arms ache, and she's tired (not because of him, she still has some boundaries), and she leans across him, reaching for the spatula that lays on the counter behind him.

She bites her lip as she studies the frying pancake, turning it over onto the opposite side.

Clarke groans. It's black. Crispy. _Completely fucking burnt._

"Shit," she growls. Bellamy presses his lips together, dropping the pancake into the garbage where her other failed attempts pile. "This is dumb. Why can't you just make them?"

"If you want pancakes all the time, then you have to learn to make them yourself."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "That's a stupid rule," she mutters.

"Well, you know what they say," he teases, and he extends the frying pan towards her. "Practice makes - "

Clarke scoffs, taking it from him. He smirks, and she turns to the stove, loose strands of hair hanging from her ponytail. Bellamy reaches forward and moves them from the frame of her face, fingers sticky with pancake mix as she pours the remaining batter into the frying pan.

"You know, O will kill us for wasting all the batter," she tells him.

"O will also kill us if she knew that I ate you out on that counter, but she won't find out about that either."

Clarke shrugs. "Yeah, but kitchen sex is the new shower sex. She would have understood."

He looks at her. "Kitchen sex is not a thing."

"Yes, it is," she mumbles, and when he stares at her, unwavering, she raises an eyebrow. "Oh, come on. You're not into kitchen sex?"

"Is there a reason to be?"

" _Yes_ ," she strains, nodding. "Many reasons. O told me that one time her and Lincoln - "

Bellamy's eyes widen, and he presses his hands to his ears, humming loudly.

"Oh, that's mature," she hisses, "really fucking mature."

He hums louder, singing some damn lyric to Drake's new album (which he probably heard on the radio, because all he listens to is the Black Keys and throwbacks), and she rolls her eyes, lifting the spatula towards him and -

There's a small cough of acknowledgement, and Clarke frowns, turning to meet a familiar pair of brown eyes in the centre of the kitchen.

Bellamy lowers his hands from his ears. "Gina. Hey."

Little perfect Gina grins. "What's up, Bell?" She looks at Clarke, nodding. "Griffin."

Clarke presses her lips together to hide a scowl.

"We're making pancakes, or at least Clarke is failing to make pancakes," he tells her.

"Shut up."

He raises an eyebrow at her, and Gina laughs.

"It's okay, Clarke," she says, and she drops a textbook onto the kitchen counter, leaning onto it. "You should have seen me when he was trying to give me study tips on psychology. Didn't work out too well."

Bellamy shrugs his shoulders. "But you passed."

"Yeah, thanks to you."

Clarke smiles tightly. She glances at him, his hair messy and untamed from the morning they just shared, and she exhales deeply, digging the spatula underneath the cooked pancake.

Gina sighs. "Well, I should probably go find Raven. We've got that chemistry exam tomorrow."

"Wouldn't want to keep her waiting," Clarke tells her.

Gina laughs, fucking genuine and adorable and - God, it's horrible. She reaches for her textbook, waving to Clarke and murmuring a soft goodbye to Bellamy as she exits the kitchen, her smile still God damn shinning as she disappears up the stairs.

Bellamy turns to her, frowning when he notices her expression.

"What's that look for?"

Clarke frowns. "What look?"

He touches her forehead. "The space between your eyebrows. It's all scrunched up," he says, and his fingers smooth over the padded skin. "It looks like you're about to activate Tiny Tank."

"I'm not - " she huffs, flipping the pancake. "It's nothing."

"Clarke."

She shakes her head. "It's _nothing_."

He raises an eyebrow at her, expecting, and she sighs.

"It's the pancakes, alright? They're stupid." She glances at him and crosses her arms over her chest. "Congratulations, Blake. You made me hate pancakes. You made me hate the one thing I loved."

He presses his lips together, amused, and it _really pisses her off_. She turns from him, hovering over the stove as she pulls down the dial of the heat, flattening the pancake against the pan.

She tries to step away from the stove, but Bellamy leans forward, pressing his chest into her back.

She closes her eyes. "Bell."

"Clarke."

"What are you doing?" she mumbles.

His lips fan across the back of her neck. "Just brainstorming," he hums, and she can feel his smirk on her skin, "I have some pretty decent ideas on how to make you love them again."

She tilts her head against his chest. "I'm assuming these ideas have nothing to do with the pancakes."

"Not at all," he whispers.

"I'm also assuming these ideas have something to do with kitchen sex, in which I think you might find enjoyable."

He presses a kiss to her ear. "Show me."

She grins mischievously, and then he's turning her in his arms, leaning forward to kiss her as his hands curl around her thighs. He lifts her onto the counter, pushing the egg bowl aside and making her gasp into his mouth.

Clarke wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him close, kissing him and kissing him until the pancakes begin to sizzle beside them, and the smoke alarm echoes throughout the entire house.

* * *

 

iii.

Final exams end a week later, wrapping up her first semester.

Her mother wants her home for the holidays, which isn't anything new, but it's different this time since Bellamy and Octavia won't be coming back to the city with her. Bellamy doesn't have the cash, or a passport, and Octavia just doesn't have the desire.

Which, at the beginning is okay, until she learns that Clarke still does.

"This is stupid. You know that, right?" Octavia huffs, lowering herself onto the mattress. Her eyes are narrow as she looks up at the ceiling. "How long are you even leaving for?"

Clarke pulls a red shirt from underneath her. "Three weeks."

She groans. "I told you," she hisses, " _stupid_."

Clarke laughs. She lifts the red shirt from the covers and folds it, placing it into the suitcase her mother bought her specifically for the holidays. It's bigger than what she needs, but Octavia might want to crawl inside too, so it's flexible.

"You'll survive," she tells her, and Octavia scoffs. "You have a boyfriend to entertain, remember?"

"So do you."

She shakes her head. "Fuck off."

Octavia grins. "Come to think of it, this break might be a good thing," she says as she crosses her arms behind her head. "It'll give me time to heal from all the sex I hear you and Bell having."

"I thought we were more quiet now."

Octavia raises an eyebrow. "Are you kidding? Yesterday morning when I heard you guys I thought it was my alarm clock." She presses her lips together, thoughtful. "It was actually quite reliable."

"How resourceful."

"I know, right? Waking up to my best friend and brother boning. Such a good idea for a ringtone."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "As if you and Lincoln are any better."

"Well have you seen the guy? I'm surprised he hasn't split me in half by now."

"That's dramatic."

Octavia winks. "But also true."

Clarke grins. She walks to her closet and pulls a sweater from the bottom shelf, the elf ears reminding her of the first Christmas she spent at the sorority. She had just met Raven, and thought she was crazy, but then realized she was crazy, too.

So they became friends. Obviously.

"Why is your mom making a big deal about Christmas this year anyway?" Octavia asks her, and she hesitates, her eyes widening suddenly. "Oh, my God. Is she dying? Does she have cancer? Clarke - "

"Relax, Blake. She's got a boyfriend."

"No fucking way."

Clarke nods. "Marcus Kane. Remember him?"

"Shut up," she gasps, "your mom's forking the old Captain?"

"Poor choice of words, but yes, if that's how you want to describe it."

Octavia leans back. "Good for her. They're both hot. You know, for a couple of old people." She pauses, eyes softening as she looks at Clarke. "You okay with it though?"

Clarke glances at her. She looks young suddenly, and Clarke is reminded of the first Halloween they spent together, when her dad was alive and they were both just kids trying to eat as much candy without giving a shit about the costumes.

She shrugs her shoulders. "Everybody's got to move on, right?" she tells her, and when Octavia nods in comfort, she turns to pull a dress from her closet, displaying it in front of her. "But more importantly, do you think my mom will kill me if I wear this dress instead of the one she bought for the dinner party?"

Octavia bites on her lip to hide her grin. "I'm going to have to go with yes," she says, and Clarke huffs in annoyance. "But it wouldn't be an axe kind of murder, more like a poison in your wine kind of deal."

* * *

 

iv.

Clarke stands in the aisle of the beer store, observing the selections in front of her. She's feeling Captain Morgan, but she knows that Octavia hates rum, and will probably be drinking from her cup most of the night anyways, so she glances at the bottles on the shelf above it; runs her fingers along the labels.

"How about tequila?" she says, reaching for a _Don Julio_. "You need more tequila."

Bellamy looks down at the basket he's carrying. "We already have two bottles of tequila."

"So? It's the end of the semester party. It'll be gone in seconds."

"Probably," he agrees, and she glances at him when she hears his amused tone, "but only because _you_ love tequila."

"I love any variation of alcohol," she tells him.

He shakes his head. "Doubtful." He takes the bottle from her and places it back on the shelf, instead grabbing a case of beer. "Remember that time you drank jager? You threw up for hours."

"That never happened."

"It did," he says, and he smirks like the freckled bastard he is. "It was the night after both you and O got into the same university. You came down for a night to go to a freshman party. I had to carry both of you out before midnight."

She narrows her eyes. "I had an upset stomach that night."

"You had a weak stomach."

"Only because you were there."

"Smooth, Griffin," he says, "I really felt that one."

Clarke rolls her eyes. She turns back to the selection of alcohol in front of them and crosses her arms over her chest. It's getting late, and her hair is even done yet; not that Bellamy helped with that when he ran his fingers through it half an hour ago.

"Well we should get another bottle. Doubt Jasper got the coolers like he was supposed to."

"It's Jasper. What else would you expect?" He picks up a bottle of _Smirnoff Ice_. "What about Vodka?"

"You hate vodka."

"Only when I drink it," he says. "But not when you do - it makes you horny."

She laughs. "Vodka does not make me horny."

"You're right," he murmurs, and he leans closer. "Only I do."

He presses a kiss to her jaw, simple, _easy_ ; lips barely grazing her skin (even though that doesn't stop her from grinning like a damn fool). He pulls away from her to grab the vodka from the shelf, placing it in the basket with the others as he turns towards the cash register.

She follows behind him, her smile fading when she notices the same free-condom-sample employee from last time.

He blinks when he see's her, probably not recognizing her, and she taps her foot impatiently against the tile as he scans all of the items - as slowly as he fucking could, if she might add - glasses falling down his nose as he cashes them in.

Bellamy pays, and they turn to leave when the man clears his throat.

"Ma'am?" She looks at him, and he offers her a brown basket filled with wrappers. "We're offering free condoms this weekend. Would you like you any?"

"I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yup."

"But they're free."

She smiles tightly. "I'm aware."

"You should get them, unless you didn't like them from - "

Clarke huffs and reaches forward, fisting a stash of condoms in her hand and pushing them into her pockets. The man stares at her, amused, and she steps away from him, Bellamy's smug smile following her out of the store.

* * *

 

v.

She stands in front of her mirror, pulling her jeans above her waist.

"I don't know," she murmurs, turning to look at her legs in the reflection. "I feel like this colour doesn't go with the tank, right? Or does it go with the top? What if I wear the _red_ one and - "

Octavia shakes her head. "Are you kidding? The tank goes way better than the red."

"The tank makes me look pasty. And boring."

"You don't look boring."

Clarke purses her lips. "What if I try on a different pair of jeans?"

"What if you just shut the fuck up and start drinking?" Raven huffs.

She narrows her eyes. Raven shrugs and takes a sip of her beer.

"I like the tank," Gina says, and Clarke glances at her from where she sits perched on the bed, legs crossed over the other. "It brings out your eyes."

Octavia nods. "She has a point." She stands behind Clarke and tugs on the straps of the top, pulling them lower to reveal her cleavage. "And plus it makes your boobs look good."

"Her boobs always look good," Raven grumbles. "It's fucking annoying."

"Exactly," Octavia says. "You'll look hot either way, but you'll get a third glance in that tank." She nudges her shoulder against Clarke's. "Which shouldn't really matter, since you'll probably end up spending the night at my brother's anyway."

"Might surprise you and have him spend the night here instead."

Octavia snorts. "So I can listen to him satisfy you all night?"

"Correction. I'm the one who satisfies him."

"Still in the denial stage, are you?"

"Shut up," she hisses.

Gina laughs. She lifts herself from Clarke's mattress and walks over to them, clutching the wine cooler between her fingers.

"Don't worry, I've dated a couple of my friends. It gets less weird." She tilts her head and touches a finger to her chin. "But then again I always end up breaking up with them, so don't trust my judgement."

Clarke presses her lips together. "Me and Bellamy aren't dating."

"Really?" She crosses her arms over her chest. "I thought you guys were a thing."

"Not exactly."

"Oh. Are you one of those people who are uncomfortable with labels? I once dated a guy for a year who still wouldn't refer to me as his girlfriend."

Clarke shrugs. "I don't mind labels."

Gina nods, eyebrows scrunched in confusion, and Raven breathes deeply.

"They're just screwing," she informs her, opening a second bottle of beer. "You know, for fun. Some good old-fashioned penis in vagina sex."

"I think she knows how sex works," Octavia grumbles.

Gina looks at Clarke. "So it's not exclusive?"

She opens her mouth to explain, but Raven's laugh is loud and overpowering

"You kidding? The only thing Bellamy and Clarke are committed to is tearing each other's clothes off."

Clarke scoffs. "Not true. We still hang out."

"But you're not dating?"

Clarke looks at Gina, brown eyes eager in comparison to her blue depths. She scrunches her nose, and for some reason the answer is stuck on her tongue (maybe it's the tequila, tequila has a really bad taste, okay?)

"No," she tells her. She grins tightly. "We're not."

Gina nods, and then she turns to Octavia, telling her she looks 'absolutely amazing' in her outfit; and she has to resist the urge to roll her eyes because both of Octavia's shirt and jeans are hers, and Clarke has a feeling her and Gina share the same taste in more than just clothes.

* * *

 

vi.

"People are staring at us."

Bellamy pulls away from her, hair tangled from the length of her fingers. He glances at the crowd that has gathered around them in the kitchen, and she presses her lips together, hiding the smile that forms her face at his scowl.

He turns to her, mouth swollen and warm with the taste of beer.

"That's new." He runs his hands up her thighs and skims the waistband of her jeans. "I guess they want to be educated."

She laughs. "Educated, huh?"

"Yup. Since we're good at what we do. And plus, we're probably giving them a great view."

"Obviously," she says, "have you seen what I'm wearing?"

"I have."

She raises an eyebrow. "And?"

He looks down. "And I'm aware of how good your boobs look, Griffin."

"You sure?" she teases, pulling him closer, "I was afraid you wouldn't notice."

"Trust me. I've noticed."

Clarke laughs. She locks her legs around his waist and presses into him, kissing him the way she knows drives him crazy, all thought and skill, open-mouthed on his skin. He growls against her, hands on her thighs.

His breath is low on her lips. "Clarke."

"Mhm?"

"Would I be a bad host if I took you upstairs right now?"

She smiles. "Probably. But you've never been a good one."

He chuckles, and the sound is a dim noise in the overpowering melody of the music. He kisses her again, softer this time, slowing them down, and she silently thanks him for it, because otherwise she'd be peeling his shirt off and attacking him before -

"Bellamy! _Bellamy_."

He pulls away from her and turns to the girl standing behind him.

"Fox," Clarke groans when she notices her, "we're kind of busy."

Fox rolls her eyes. "Well this is _kind o_ f an emergency," she hisses, and she tugs on his arm, dragging him from the space between Clarke's thighs, "Harper is throwing up again. Figured you'd like to know."

"Damn it," he curses, "where?"

"Master hall."

Clarke sighs. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine. Octavia's with her, and we're going to take her home, but it's a pretty big mess."

"Of course it is," Bellamy murmurs. He drags a hand over his face and turns to Clarke, pecking her lips quickly. "I'll take care of it. Don't further educate our audience until I get back."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He nods, and Fox drags him away from her, pulling him deeper into the gathering crowd. Clarke sighs and pushes herself from the counter.

She's bored, and doesn't know where the hell Raven is, knows Octavia is taking care of the weak, and that - well, she actually doesn't really hang out with anyone else.

Her eyes scan the crowd for a familiar face (or a non-familiar face, because hey, she can make some friends if she talks about the weather) and she notices Gina in the living room, talking to some girl, and - yeah, Clarke decides at that moment that she needs to take a piss.

She huffs and walks out of the kitchen, struggling through the people that crowd in the hallway. The music is loud and constant around her - some Kanye song she's never heard, which isn't saying much because she doesn't support misogynistic assholes - and she makes her way up the stairs, breathing in deep at the space.

She reaches for the washroom door, but someone opens it before she does, and she collides into a solid chest.

"Fuck, I'm sorry - " she looks up at the person and blinks at the familiar face. "Oh. Dax."

His smile is wide. "Clarke Griffin."

"That's me."

He stares at her. "What are you doing up here?"

"Nothing. Just trying to get to a damn toilet."

"Well I'm pretty sure there's a toilet in there, so I think you're in the clear."

She nods. "Thanks for the advice."

She walks forward, but he shifts, stepping in front of her and closing the door behind him.

"What are you - "

"I have a question," he says.

Clarke looks at him. "Okay."

"You're screwing Blake."

Her eyes widen. She stares at him, blonde hair a dark shadow against the wall.

Her jaw tightens. "That's not a question."

"No," he says, "but you still answered it."

She narrows her eyes. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I think you know."

"No. I don't."

He smirks, and the feature makes her stomach curl and her throat tighten. She swallows thickly and steps backwards, but it doesn't matter, because he matches her stride with his own.

"Get out of my way," she hisses.

"What's the magic word?"

She glares at him. "Now."

"There's no need to get aggressive," he tells her. He lifts his hands in the air in mock surrender. "I'm just curious about what it takes."

"About it takes to what?"

He shrugs. "To get a round with you," he says, licking his lips. "You know, since you fucked Myles, fucked Finn. Now you're fucking Bellamy. Looks like you give lots of favours to those who want it."

Clarke shakes her head. Her eyes feel raw with disgust.

"Fuck you," she spits.

"That's the point here, Griffin. You're the one acting tense."

She shoves at him. He stumbles backwards, not far but far enough, and she pushes away from him, turning back towards the staircase. He reaches forward and grabs her arm, pulling her against him.

Clarke turns towards him and slaps her hand across his cheek.

Dax winces, touching the sensitive skin. "Bitch."

She stares at him. His eyes are wide, dark, and she walks to the end of the hallway, lungs thick and eyes stinging as she stumbles down the staircase. The music is loud again, and it makes her head hurt, makes it pulse and throb and -

"Clarke." Gina touches her arm in the crowd, concern itched in her expression. "Hey. You okay?"

She doesn't trust her voice, so she nods. "Fine. I have to go."

And then she leaves, desperate, _angry_ ; walking and walking until she doesn't hear the music anymore, until there's nothing but her heavy breathing.

* * *

 

vii.

She stretches onto her bed, face pressed down on the mattress. The white sheets are stained black with her mascara, and she clutches her pillow, wiping the remaining foundation onto the material.

She hates crying. Hates the person who made her cry.

She knows it shouldn't bother her, that Dax Woods is a bad person with an even worse reputation, but it hurts - because it's real. Because she's slept with guys and guys have slept with her for one reason; the pleasure, the physical attraction, for the wants and not the needs.

It's dumb. _She's_ dumb. Her tears feel even more stupid.

She's wiping them from her cheeks when there's a knock against her door.

Clarke stares at wooden surface. No one knows she's here; made sure Octavia didn't see her from Harper's room, or that Raven didn't notice her when she left the frat's kitchen. She holds her breath, waiting, quiet in her blankets.

There's another knock. Then another, and she chews on her bottom lip.

"Naked," she calls.

The doorknob twists, and Bellamy enters the room, eyebrows raised in assessment.

"Was that supposed to keep me out?"

Clarke exhales. "Go away, Blake."

He narrows his eyes, lips pursed as he slips off his jacket.

"That certainly wasn't the greeting I was expecting," he murmurs.

"I'm sure it wasn't," she says, and she curls tighter into her sheets, "now leave."

He stares at her, and his eyes are round, concerned - it bothers her. She turns her head from him and presses her face into the pillow, but it doesn't make him leave, doesn't stop him from crossing into the room and sitting beside her on the mattress.

"Gina told me you left," he confesses. His tone is soft. "Something happened."

"Nothing happened."

"Clarke."

"Nothing happened," she repeats.

"Bullshit," he mutters. "You're upset."

She lifts her head at that. "So? Why do you care?"

His jaw clenches. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

She looks at him, bitter, and drops her forehead onto the mattress.

"Hey." He stretches himself onto the bed, lying next to her on his side. "Clarke. Tell me what's wrong."

"No. I said leave. Okay?"

He shakes his head, and damn him for being as stubborn as she is.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what's wrong," he whispers.

Clarke swallows thickly. She hates him. Hates him and Dax and the tears stained on her cheeks. She breathes deeply, clutching the pillow into her side; the room silent as he remains beside her.

He reaches forward and traces soft patterns on her shoulder. She closes her eyes.

"A guy cornered me tonight."

His hand hovers above her skin. It's silent for a moment.

"What?"

Clarke looks at him. "A guy came up to me after you left," she explains, and she can already see the lines harden on his expression. "He wanted to know that since I was fucking you, if I was open to fucking any available guy on campus."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. That was the idea."

He presses his lips together. "Who was it?"

"Bellamy - "

" _Who_ , Clarke?"

"It doesn't matter," she hisses.

He stares at her, and it's quiet, the heat of her words an echo in her room. She wonders if the party has stopped, or if it's still functioning without one of it's hosts, who ended up in her room instead of his.

It's soft when he speaks again. Merely a whisper.

"You're not an object," he tells her, "if that's what you're thinking."

"It is."

"You shouldn't be."

"Why not?" she demands. She shifts onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. "Half the time I'm talking to guys, they're staring at these things," she cups her breasts in her hands and squeezes them.

He shakes his head. "Clarke."

"What?"

"You're crazy if you think all guys like you for is your body."

She shrugs. "Not just my body. The sex, too," she says, glaring at him. "That's what you like about me, right?" He stares at her, silent, and she exhales roughly, resting her arm over her eyes. "Never mind."

Bellamy pulls her arm away, holding her wrist as he looks down at her.

"That's not all I like about you."

"Yes, it is," she mumbles, "we hate each other."

He raises an eyebrow, exasperating, and she sighs.

"Fine. We tolerate each other."

He shakes his head. "Piss off. We're friends." He smiles, shifting onto his elbow to hover above her, heads closer in the darkness. "Even before this whole thing started."

She touches the shirt of his collar. "I guess so."

He narrows his eyes, and she notices the determination in them, the focus. He reaches forward, gripping her chin and lifting her face towards him, staring at her as if he's spent his entire life doing so.

"I like your eyes," he whispers, and her throat feels dry.

"Bellamy."

"They're a nice blue." His fingers expand onto her cheek, fingers touching the skin above her eyelids. "The kind that sparkle."

Clarke grins and touches his jaw. "I like your freckles."

"Yeah?"

She nods. "And your lips."

He pokes her mouth. "Your smile."

"Hands."

"Hair."

"Arms," she says, running her fingers down his biceps.

"Eyes."

She laughs. "You said that."

"I meant it."

Clarke releases a long breath. His thumb is soft on her cheek, and she's stopped crying, stopped thinking about Dax and every asshole she's met. Has only been thinking about Bellamy, about what he's been saying.

Her heart turns heavy with affection, and she smiles, clutching his face in her hands.

"That was nice," she whispers, "didn't know you had it in you."

Bellamy shrugs. "I did raise a teenage girl," he explains, and she laughs, nodding. He touches her hair. "You know what else is going to make you feel better?"

"What?"

"Netflix."

She beams. "Full house?"

He groans, and she tugs at his arm.

"Please, _please_." She raises an eyebrow. "You don't want me to cry again, do you?"

He sighs. "Unfair play, but fine. Put it on, I'll grab you some water."

She smiles, and he shifts on the mattress, beginning to pull away from her. She shakes her head and lifts herself onto her elbows, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing into him, head on on his shoulder.

He hesitates, but then he embraces her back, lips in her hair.

"Thank you," she whispers, and he nods.

(When he comes back upstairs, he's got a water bottle, her favourite chocolate and a bag of chips. She falls asleep before the second episode even starts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter (especially the last scene). I hope you guys liked that smut, and how 'platonic' they were mwuahahah. Can't wait to read your thoughts! Hope you enjoyed it and will post the next chapter when it's complete!
> 
> Also, bellarke is rising in this fic and also on the show. How cool is that?
> 
> Much love, xoxo.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrrrrrrighty squad! Guess who's returned from space (after one year, not six) to collect the love from all of you awesome people. I can't believe it's been twelve whole months since this story has been updated. Unforgivable, I know, but I'm here to keep writing if you guys are willing to give me a second chance.
> 
> I promised you I would finish this fic and that's what I'm going to do. Us Canadians keep our promises.
> 
> So here it is. The next chapter of Friends (With Benefits). Hope it was worth the wait, and that I haven't lost any readers due to my neglect. Enjoy.

i.

She awakens with a groan, clutching her arms into the softness of her pillow.

She was hungover, and her head hurt like a _fucking bitch._

Clarke shifts on the mattress. Her blanket is tangled between her limbs, and she pulls it higher, a lazy attempt to shield against the light shining through her window. It doesn't help, and she reaches for the body next to her.

"Can you close the damn blinds?" she mutters. "I'll throw up. I swear to God I'll throw up on you if - "

Her hand grazes the solid sheets of the mattress, and she opens her eyes, fingers grasping the bare comforter.

 _Oh_.

He's not there.

Bellamy _I'll-make-you-feel-better-with-chocolate-and-Netflix_ Blake isn't beside her

Clarke exhales - not because she's disappointed (or at least that's what she tries to convince herself) but because it surprises her. He was there, secure and warm beside her, and she pushes away the chocolate bar wrappers as she rolls off her mattress.

Her head still hurt like a bitch, and she needed Advil.

(Admittedly, it takes her an extra couple of minutes to actually leave her bedroom. Throwing up after a night of drinking is a completely reasonable and healthy result).

The hallway smells of cheap butter and coffee when she enters, and she quickens her pace down the staircase. She hopes it's Wick making breakfast, or maybe Octavia, or, since she's desperate, just anyone who isn't as hungover as her and is capable of baking edible food.

Clarke stumbles into the kitchen. Her eyes widen at the sight of Bellamy at the stove.

He turns to her. "Good morning," he says, and the grin on his face is almost as marvelous as the batter he's flipping. "You hungry?"

She stares at him. "You're making me pancakes."

"Well, yeah." He places one onto the growing plate beside him. There's maybe four, _five -_ it instantly makes her stomach growl. "I wasn't going to let you do it. You can't cook for shit."

She shakes her head, speechless, and he steps towards her.

"You're in shock, I know. I was expecting this." He takes her hand and guides her to the island. A placemat and cup of coffee are settled in front of one of the stools. "But I got you covered. You don't have to move. Everything you need is right here."

" _Bell_."

He offers her the coffee mug. "Milk and sugar, right?"

Clarke blinks. "Yeah. Right." She sighs and lowers herself on the stool. "Thank you."

"No worries."

"Seriously, Bell," she says, "this is amazing."

"Good. I figured you deserved a day without anyone being an asshole." His grin turns serious then, calculating, and he glances at her. "How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Better. I'm grateful that I've already had my morning throw up."

"That's good timing."

She nods. "And John Stamos definitely helped last night."

"Mhm."

"And these pancakes," she whispers. She clutches his face between her hands. "And you."

He smirks - that _stupid_ , irresistible smirk, and she leans forward, tugging him against her.

"Ahem."

Octavia enters the kitchen, hands clamped over her eyes.

"Is it safe to look?"

Bellamy exhales, pulling away from her. "Not if you walked in five minutes later."

She sticks her tongue out. "Gross. I hate you." She peels her fingers from her forehead, glare softening when she notices the pile of pancakes on the counter. "I _love_ you."

She stumbles forward, ripping a piece of Clarke's pancake. Bellamy offers her a sympathetic glance.

"God, this is just what I need." She wipes at her mouth, looking at Clarke. "Where did you guys end up last night? I didn't see you for like half of the entire party."

The memory of Dax is profound. "We left early."

"Very early. You wouldn't want to hear about it," Bellamy tells her. He swallows thickly. "How's Harper?"

"That depends. What answer would satisfy you?"

Clarke narrows her eyes. "Knowing she's not dead. Or in a ditch."

"Oh. Then, yeah." Octavia leans over the counter, reaching for Clarke's cup of coffee. "Then she's great. I mean she's throwing up and shit, but she's alive."

Bellamy shakes his head. "That's reassuring."

"What are you now? A party cop? She has a hangover, she'll be fine." She pauses, temporary, and glances around the kitchen. "Where the hell is Raven?"

There's a hiccup, and a hand rises from behind the couch in the living room. Raven sits up, hair plastered to the side of her face.

"Here." She burps, loud and heavy. The pancakes suddenly become distasteful in Clarke's mouth. "What's up party people?"

"What's up? You left me alone talking to Echo and all you have to say is _what's up_?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you want me to fucking curtsy?"

Octavia shakes her head. Clarke raises an eyebrow.

"You look like hell," she says.

"Really? Because I feel great. Strictly dickly, as they say."

"Who's they?"

Wick appears beside her, head peeking from behind the couch.

"I'm they," he announces, and Bellamy laughs into his mug.

Octavia groans. "Oh, great. Take a look everyone, we have John and Yoko having sex on our shared couch now." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Other people live here you know."

Raven rolls her eyes. "Blah, blah, blah. Do you usually talk this much?"

"You're such a - "

There's a sudden movement, and Wick stands from the couch, stumbling towards the kitchen and bracing himself against the counter.

He leans over it, throwing up into the sink.

" _For fuck's sakes."_

Octavia growls, muttering under her breath. Clarke pushes the plate of pancakes away with a heavy sigh.

"Guess this means you ain't coming to training, huh?" Bellamy asks.

Wick gives him the finger, throwing up again with a loud groan.

"I take that as a no."

Raven walks towards them, patting his back, and Bellamy turns to Clarke.

She looks up at him. "That definitely wasn't the breakfast experience I was expecting," she tells him. She glances at his gym bag hanging from the side door. "You leaving now?"

"Yeah. Coach wants us early since it's the last one of the semester."

Clarke nods, and the hesitance in her is sudden. Raven glances at him from across the kitchen.

"You still coming to the bar tonight though, right?" she asks. "It's the last squad outing before Clarke abandons us."

"Abandon you? It's three weeks, Reyes."

Octavia drops her head in her hands. "Don't remind me."

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "You'll survive, O." He turns to Clarke. "But yeah, I'll be there."

She grins. "Good."

He winks at her, ruffling Octavia's hair as he walks past her.

Wick throws up again before he even exits the kitchen.

* * *

ii.

"This is fucking _disgusting_."

Raven leans over the counter, scrubbing her gloves at the outer release of Wick's stomach that hangs over the sink. He vomited for another hour after Bellamy left, nearly succumbing to tears, and Lincoln had to carry him to the house like a God damn child.

It was embarrassing - for _Raven_ at least. But Clarke found it hilarious.

"What the hell does this kid eat?" she mutters. She drops her cloth into the wash bucket. "He threw up every colour of the rainbow."

Raven groans. "Can we please not discuss details about what his vomit looks like?"

Clarke presses her lips together. The vomit is gross, for she only agreed to help clean it after she was promised pancakes every morning for a week, and she scrunches her nose as she lifts another cloth to the stained tile.

It feels solid, and her eyes widen when she notices the pigments of a Mcdonald's french fry.

"Aw, Reyes." She bumps her shoulder against hers. "You totally used the Mcdonald's coupons I got you."

Raven glances at her. "Well, yeah. Two can dine for $10.99? That's a damn good deal."

"I know, right? Me and Bell got them the other day. It's - "

There's a motion, and Raven lifts her hand, smacking Clarke hard across the back of the head.

She gasps. " _Ow_." Her fingers grip her hair as she turns to her. "What the _fuck,_ Reyes."

Raven shrugs, unaffected by her anger, and raises her hand again.

Clarke steps away from her. "What the hell are you doing, psycho?"

"What you told me to," she says. Clarke stares at her, waiting for her to continue. "You said if you ever started to get too comfortable with Blake that I should hit you."

"When the hell did I say that?"

"Don't remember. We were plastered."

Clarke points a finger at her. "I told you to never trust drunk Clarke."

"I know, but to be honest I was kind of looking forward to an opportunity to use it." She sighs, glancing at her from the hood of curious eyes. "So Blake slept over last night, huh?"

Clarke presses her lips together. She doesn't mention Dax, or the aggressiveness that was replaced by Bellamy's comfort. Doesn't mention how much it scared her feeling safe with him.

There's a moment of silence, and Clarke clears her throat.

"Yeah," she says. "It's a long story."

"It doesn't have to be."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Raven exhales. "Listen, if you wanted him to stay then you wanted him to stay. There's nothing wrong with that." She shrugs and leans over the sink. "It's probably a good idea to figure out what you are before you leave tomorrow."

Clarke narrows her eyes. She knows what they are. "That's not necessary."

"It is. You really expect things to be the same when you come back?"

"Why wouldn't they be?"

Raven shakes her head. "I mean, you're gone for three weeks, right?" Clarke nods, impatient, and she continues. "Bellamy is a good-looking guy. You might want to talk to him about what that means."

Clarke stares at her. "I know what it means," she whispers.

(She had no fucking idea).

* * *

iii.

The bar is already crowded when they get there; inner walls pressed with the regular categories of drunk messes.

It's rather simple to identify, for Category A involves the drunk girls who hang off the counter waiting for free drinks, while Category B consists of the even more drunk boys trying to convince them they're sober enough to go home with them.

It's a terrible cycle, that of intoxicated decisions, and it bothers Clarke almost as much as the cycle of Raven's words tearing through her head.

The words that bother her because, well - they made sense, and she _hated_ that.

He's a good-looking guy, she had told her, and that was supposed to change things.

Clarke exhales deeply, watching as he talks to Wick at the bar after she asked him to get her a vodka cranberry. The first category of drunk girls hover around them, and they're attractive, Clarke notices, but now she can't stop thinking about how attractive _Bellamy_ is and why that's supposed to _fucking matter_ all of a sudden.

"Hey, Amy Dunne." Octavia taps her foot against hers underneath their table. "You finished burning holes into those girl's heads?"

Clarke blinks. "What?"

"You know what I'm talking about. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says.

"It's not nothing." She touches a stray curl on Clarke's forehead, locking it behind her ear. "This is your only night with us for winter break, tell me what's up so you don't spend it sulking."

"I'm not sulking."

"You are." She presses her lips together and glances at Bellamy from across the bar. "Is it about my brother?"

 _Yes_. "No."

"You're a horrible liar."

There's a grunt, distant at first, and Raven steps out of the crowded bodies surrounding their table. She slides into the booth beside Clarke.

"Damn, people are thirsty tonight." She adjusts the straps of her tank top, smiling when she looks up at them. "What are we talking about?"

Octavia sighs. "Bellamy."

Raven huffs. She glances at Clarke, and she feels the familiar shiver of pain as she kicks her leg underneath the table.

" _Raven_."

"What? You're acting like a moron."

"How am I acting like a moron?"

"Because you obviously have questions," Raven tells her. "And all you have to do is go up and ask him about them. No one wants to see you sulk."

Octavia nods. "That's what I said."

"Whatever." Clarke closes her eyes. "I wouldn't be sulking if you didn't put all that shit into my head."

Octavia looks at Raven. "What shit?"

"The truth."

"Oh, so you mean the fact that Bellamy and Clarke haven't talked about what's going to happen when she leaves?"

"Ring, ring." Raven claps her hands together. "We have a winner."

Octavia laughs, raising her palm for Raven's high-five, and Clarke crosses her arms over her chest.

"You guys are acting like assholes. I'm fine. Totally and perfectly fine. I'm not - "

A girl steps towards Bellamy at the bar. Clarke narrows her eyes.

"Excuse me."

She shifts in the booth, crawling over Raven as she leans against the cushion. She enters the crowd of people gathering around them, angry, _annoyed_ \- because the idea of Bellamy talking to someone else irritates her in ways that she doesn't expect, or even like.

She pushes at the rallying bodies, though the girl is no longer there, having stumbled into another man at the bar.

Oh.

Clarke blinks. He brushed her off.

_He brushed her off._

Bellamy reaches for the glass of alcohol on the counter, muttering something to Wick as they turn from the bar. She watches him, calculative, his eyebrow raising when he notices her.

"Hey," he says. Wick moves past them as he stops in front of her. "What are you doing?"

Clarke swallows thickly. "I was . . . " She panics, eyes searching the space behind him. "Going to get a drink."

"A drink?"

"Aye, Captain."

He gestures towards the glass in his hand. "You mean the vodka cranberry you asked me to get?"

Clarke stares at him. It's silent for a moment, at least between them, and she laughs, releasing the tension in her shoulders.

"Sorry, yeah. I was totally scared that you were going to drink it or something, you know, so I just came to make sure . . . that you didn't."

"Nah," he says, "vodka's not really my taste."

She grins. "So it seems."

Bellamy nods. His eyes are calculative as he stares at her.

"You good, Griffin?"

She clears her throat. "Yeah. I'm good." She takes the glass from his hand. "We're all good."

His gaze narrows, and she see's him analyzing her, notices the measurement in his depths as he watches her. It's uneasy, having him know her so well, and she takes a sip of the drink before he knows too much.

"Come on," she whispers, pulling him against her, "it's the last night before I abandon all of you, remember? Let's have fun."

Bellamy hums. "Aye, Captain," he mirrors, and she laughs; guiding him back to the table while the cycle of Raven's words continues to pulse irrationally inside her head.

* * *

iv.

She finishes three more vodka cranberries before midnight, and God damn it - Bellamy Blake was right.

Vodka makes her fucking _horny_.

She pulls him into his room hours later, stumbling with intertwined limbs as he pushes her against his door. His breath smells of beer and rum, further intoxicating her with his kiss, and she mewls into him, warm and fuzzy, allowing him to guide her towards the bed.

He lowers her onto the sheets and peels off his shirt. Her hands wander to the waistband of her jeans.

"God damn it," she hisses. Her fingers fumble with the buttons. "My fucking - _Bellamy_. Help me."

He laughs. "You're kidding."

"Not kidding. I need your assistance." She props herself onto her elbows. "And make it fast. I'm fucking - "

"Horny? Yeah, I've noticed."

He unclasps the pin hovering the waistband of her jeans, and she exhales, leaning into the mattress as he hovers above her.

"It's because of the vodka," she tells him as he trails his lips down her throat, "not because of you. In case you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

He pushes the jeans down her thighs, exposing her panties, and he groans when he feels the dampness gathering the material.

"Fuck, Clarke." Even the God damn heaviness of his voice makes her squirm. "Are you sure you can handle the next three weeks?"

She wraps her legs around his waist. "Depends on how satisfied you leave me tonight."

He curses, and her body feels heavy with warmth, arms encircling his shoulders to pull him closer. He kisses her in the way that leaves her gasping, the way that consumes her, and it angers her how the feeling is ruined by his stupid words and her even more stupid thoughts.

She rolls her head to the side. "Wait," she whispers. His mouth hovers above hers. "Hold on."

"What's wrong?"

She breathes. "I have a question."

"And it needs to be answered right now?"

She looks at him, calculating. Her groan is a result of frustration. "Yes. Yes, it does. Just - " She sighs heavily and places her palms on his chest. "I'm leaving for three weeks."

"I'm aware."

"Okay. I think . . . I don't know. Maybe we could call this thing off for now."

Bellamy stares at her, gaze hardening with confusion, and it terrifies her - the not knowing. Not knowing what he thinks or feels, what he wants. It's almost as terrifying as her not knowing either.

He nods, expression blank, and begins to pull away.

Clarke tightens her legs around his hips. "Stop. Listen for a second. It's just that - you'll be here, and there'll be parties and _girls_ and . . . " She sighs heavily, one that releases her tension. "We should be able to do whatever we want. No strings attached. Right?"

He nods. "Is that what you want?"

"Maybe. I don't know." She presses her lips together. "Things could change while I'm gone."

"It's three weeks. Not three years."

"Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom got married after a month."

"Great story," he says, "but I don't think it applies to this situation."

"Whatever. Point is, I don't want you to feel like . . . I don't know like we're dating." The word tastes funny on her lips, not strange, just - different. "If something happens over break, that's fine."

His expression softens, though it remains blank, and it scares her. He touches a curl on her forehead.

"We'll see what happens," he says.

Clarke blinks. "Yeah. Okay." She swallows thickly. "We'll see what happens."

He nods, eyes bare of any emotion, and traces a hand down the span of her stomach. She whimpers when his fingers reach her panties, and she lifts her head, wants to feel his lips against her own, but he leans back, avoiding it.

"What are you doing?" she whispers.

"Just giving you something to think about, for when you're gone . . . " His palm moves tortuous against her, in a pace that agonizes her with painful pleasure. She braces her hands on his shoulders. "And you won't be able to find anyone else who can make you feel like this."

He enters a finger inside of her and she moans, shifting beneath him.

" _Bellamy_."

She reaches forward again, desperate to feel more of him, and he gently pushes her back down into the sheets.

"Or go crazy like this, or touch you like this." He leans forward and whispers the remaining words into her ear. "You won't be able to find anyone else who can."

He peels the panties down her legs, giving him more territory, making her yearn him. Her hips jerk with each flick of his wrist, rocking into him; though he keeps her still against the mattress, only allowing limited movements in her craving.

It takes moments; but she comes undone, hard and with hunger, hands clenching to fists in the sheets.

Bellamy removes his hand, kissing her jaw as she recovers. She pulls away from him once he reaches her lips.

"I think you're forgetting how competitive I am," she whispers, and he smirks, letting her push him onto his back and straddle his hips, the uncertainty of them easing from her mind.

* * *

v.

He brings her to the airport in the morning, and she leaves thinking it doesn't matter what happens.

She was going home, and that made her more nervous than the mere possibility of Bellamy not being hers anymore when she returns.

Because home was different to her now, it felt and looked different. Her father was dead, her mother working on finding a new one to replace him, and she was terrified to see them, the apprehension within her only increasing when she lands in Boston hours later.

Her mother stands at the bottom of the escalator, holding a sign that says Griffin, and Clarke drops her head in embarrassment.

"Mom," she laughs, wrapping her arms around her, "I thought we agreed on no more signs."

Abby smiles. "I know. But I missed you, and there's still leftover glitter in your bedroom."

The moment she walks into her house, she knows that things have changed. The walls seem brighter, chairs containing more cushions than the last, and there aren't as many pictures of their life before her mother's new boyfriend.

But, admittedly, Clarke doesn't really mind; Marcus is nice, and more importantly, he's nice to her mother, and even more importantly - he can fucking cook.

That night, he makes them steak and mashed potatoes. The wine that her mother sets on the table is from Italy.

"So," she sits in the chair in front of her, "how is he?"

Clarke raises an eyebrow. "Who, _Finn_?" She shakes her head. "I told you we broke up."

"Not Finn, silly. The new guy you're seeing."

"What new guy? There's no new guy."

Her mother smiles. "Oh, honey. A mother always knows." Clarke sighs, pouring another glass of wine, and Abby gasps at her confirmation. "Is it someone I've met?"

"It's no one, mom."

"Right. So it's Bellamy."

Clarke's eyes widen. " _Mom_."

"What?" Her mother takes a bite of the apple pie Marcus baked for them. "Who else would you be more embarrassed by than me?"

"I don't know. Donald Trump."

Marcus laughs. Abby rolls her eyes.

"Such a drama queen," she mutters, but she's smiling. "I always thought you two had a thing."

"It's not a thing. It never will be." Clarke takes another sip of her wine. "He's still an idiot."

Abby nods. She stares at her with pressed lips.

"What does that look mean?"

The grin she gives her is smug. "Nothing for you to worry about," she tells her. "I'm sure you'll figure it out soon."

They finish dinner, and then dessert, and it continues like this for the next two weeks; eating, talking and drinking - then just drinking when her mother tries to reminiscence about childhood stories and old photos of when Clarke looked like a fucking _dude_.

She texts Octavia through it all, and Raven, but never _him_ , because he needed his privacy and she needed hers, and she didn't need to know what he was doing.

Didn't want to know, she thinks, but she tries not to think too hard about the reasons.

On New Year's Eve, her high school friends invite her to a house party downtown.

It's odd, she hasn't seen them since the summer, and they ask her about Octavia, about Bellamy, and she finds herself hiding from them on the upstairs couch before the fireworks even start.

It's not she was uncomfortable, but things haven't been the same since high school, none of them had, and she wasn't interested in pretending that they were.

Wells finds her an hour before midnight, rambling through the fridge in the corner of the attic.

He shakes his head when he notices her. "Well, I'd be damned." She glances at him, confusion turning to recognition. "Clarke Griffin without the mighty Finn Collins by his side. Now that's a visual."

Clarke smiles. "Wells," she squeals, and she jumps from the couch, pulling him against her. "It's been too long. How are you?"

"I'm alright." He wraps his arms around her waist. "How's Virginia?"

"Oh, you know. Virginia. Lots of cows and country music."

He makes a face. "That sounds terrible."

"Not so much," she tells him. "Just slightly horrible."

He laughs, and it becomes easy with him, sitting with him and talking while the party continues downstairs. He's different than she remembered, more muscular, and his jokes aren't as corny as they used to be.

At midnight, the strike of a new year, he leans in to kiss her.

She pulls away before their lips can even touch.

"Wells." She doesn't know why she stops herself, doesn't know the main reason amongst the many, and it frustrates her as much as it confuses her. "I'm sorry. I can't."

He blinks. "Shit. I'm sorry." He shifts on the couch, away from her. "I thought you and Finn broke up."

"We did."

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh."

Clarke stares at him. She feels useless, and she lifts herself from the couch.

"I'm sorry," she tells him.

She turns away from him, stumbling down the staircase and pushing the past the crowds of people who stand at the bottom. She clutches her stomach as she walks onto the porch, mind racing with thoughts and ideas and stupid feelings that she doesn't fucking _want_ or understand.

She felt lost. She was home, and she was fucking _lost_.

Clarke sniffles. She pulls out her phone, scrolling through the text messages from her friends on campus, the photos and voicemails that Octavia and Raven have been sending her. She goes to Bellamy's names and clicks on his mobile.

He answers on the third ring.

"Clarke," he answers, and _God damn it_ the roughness in his voice is refreshing.

"Bellamy." She exhales deeply. She hasn't heard his voice in weeks. "Hi."

"Hi." There's a pause. She can almost hear the smile in his voice. "Are you drunk?"

"No. I mean, kind of. I - " She shakes her head. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing special. The guys are throwing a party."

"What a surprise."

"Yeah." He laughs. She loves his laugh. "I really wasn't expecting it."

Clarke smiles. She misses them, misses him and the routine that she's created there. It's her _home_ , she realizes, and it becomes quiet for a moment, music fading in the background of his end before he speaks.

"Clarke." His tone is cautious, always concerning. "You okay?"

"Yeah. _Yeah_ , I'm fine." She presses her lips together. "I think I'm just ready to come home."

"You are home."

"I don't know," she whispers. She glances at the party behind her, at the people she doesn't know anymore. "Doesn't feel like it."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I want to go home," she clarifies. "To Virginia."

Bellamy breathes heavily. She wonders what he's thinking, always wonders what he's thinking.

"Well," he begins, and it sounds calculative. "You'll be back soon. Three more days, right?"

"Right." Clarke smiles. "Been counting down, have you?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Griffin. It's kind of hard to forget when Octavia won't stop reminding me every God damn day."

Clarke laughs, clutching her heart. "Oh, that's adorable. She misses me."

"Yeah. Don't get too comfortable." His tone turns sour, and she almost imagines the hardening of his expression. The way his eyes narrow when he's bitter. "She'll forget who you are the moment she's with Lincoln."

"Good."

He scoffs. "Good?"

"Yes, Bell. I believe that's called happiness."

"Yeah." He breathes heavily. "I guess it is."

It's quiet, peaceful, and then the echo of screaming releases in the background, loud and profound. Clarke removes the phone from her ear, though she can still hear the sound of Bellamy cursing.

"Wow." Clarke blinks, laughing. "I guess I should let you get back to your party, huh?"

"It's not much of one."

"Doesn't matter. It's New Year's Eve." She presses her lips together. "Have fun - and protect the cupboard for me. I'm serious."

"Will do." He exhales, and this time she can feel it, can see the outline of his smile. "I'll see you soon, Clarke."

She echoes the words back to him, hanging up, and for the first time since she arrived in Boston, she felt like she belonged.

(The feeling scares her more than it reassures her).

* * *

vi.

Her mother drives her to the airport on Wednesday; placing Marcus' apple pie in her suitcase and a Chili's coupon for Octavia in the carry-on.

It's emotional; Clarke admits. She loves her mother, more than she used to love Boston, and she almost wishes that she could bring her with her, bring everything - the house and Marcus and all of his homemade pies.

But she can't, and she leaves her with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to see her in the summer. Then it's over.

She arrives in Virginia before midnight.

It's odd; becoming used to the smell of manure, but she is, and it almost welcomes her when she enters Octavia's truck. It's not that she's missed the scent, but the normalcy of it, and she allows Octavia to play John Denver on the ride home.

They pull into the driveway of the sorority house an hour later. Clarke enters to darkness, screaming when Wick jumps from behind the living room couch.

"Surprise!" he yells, oblivious to her alarm, "Welcome home, Griffin!"

Octavia laughs; because _of course_ they planned this, and Raven runs towards her with wide arms and an even wider smile. She pulls her into a hug, and Octavia joins, and then Lincoln, and Clarke laughs as she's squished in the middle of all their embraces.

"Alright, alright." She hears Bellamy's voice before she sees him. "Let her breathe for a God damn second."

Octavia scoffs, snuggling closer. "You're just saying that because you haven't seen her tits in three weeks."

Clarke rolls her eyes, but they disperse moments later, and then there he is - standing in front of her with that damn smile on that damn face.

"Hey," he says, soft, and yeah, it's good to be home.

He pulls her against him, arms strong around her waist, but it's brief; too brief despite the days lacking him. Octavia pulls on her elbow, dragging her to the kitchen to try the parmesan that she cooked, and Raven is already opening the bottle of wine that she took from Marcus' cupboard.

"Y'all can talk later," Wick says, slapping Bellamy on the back. Clarke offers him a sympathetic look. "For now is the time of feasting."

Lincoln glances at the clock above the stove. "It's 1:00 am."

"Who cares," Octavia says, "Clarke's home."

It's like that for the entire night, talking to each other as though they haven't seen her in years, eager to know about Boston, even more eager to learn about Marcus. It feels nice, and she guesses this is how it feels to have a family so close, one that doesn't rely on anything but genuine care for each other.

But the reunion doesn't last as long as she'd hoped, and she almost laughs at Bellamy's expression when Octavia and Lincoln leave before the dishes are even off the table.

"That was a quick encounter for someone who missed me so much," Clarke says once the door closes.

"Don't get too used to her presence this week," Raven tells her. "Her and Lincoln just found out this new thing on - "

"Reyes," Bellamy warns, "please don't finish that sentence."

She raises an eyebrow. "As if you and Clarke haven't done every position on every surface of this damn house."

Clarke glances at him, sheepish. He returns her grin with a shake of his head.

"Speaking of." Wick stands from the table. "You ready to go?"

"Hell, yeah. We only rented that porn film for three days." She takes Wick's offering hand. Her expression is hesitant when she glances at Clarke. "You can leave the dishes here if you want. I'm sure someone will do them eventually."

"It's fine. I'm used to cleaning up after you anyways."

Raven laughs. "Please. Let's not pretend this was Octavia's original job." She presses a kiss to her cheek, purposefully loud. "I'm glad you're back, Griffin. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," she whispers. "Tomorrow."

Raven nods. She turns, waving to Bellamy as her and Wick exit through the side door of the kitchen - and then it's just them, alone; the momentary breeze from the night refreshing against the warmth that grows inside her.

Bellamy stands at the table, eyes hard. She clears her throat.

It's Bellamy, but she's fucking _nervous_.

"Uhm," she whispers. His expression is soft; still overwhelming her. "You don't have to stay, you know." She grabs one of the dishes from the table and steps towards the sink. "I know it's late. I can handle the - "

But she doesn't finish the sentence, doesn't even finish her fucking _breath_ , because Bellamy is there, pulling her against him and capturing her in a kiss that is both consuming and gentle; hard and tender.

Thank _God_.

She clutches his face in her hands, and the plate she's holding shatters beneath them. She laughs, because she doesn't _care_ , doesn't even flinch, and he stumbles with her towards the table, pushing off the dishes as he lifts her onto the surface.

Clarke settles on the wood, exhaling. She wraps her legs around his torso.

Bellamy presses his lips against her jaw. "I've been wanting to do that since you walked through the door."

His mouth continues to trail her skin, craving her; her neck and her mouth and her ear, and she pulls away from him momentarily, leaning her forehead against his.

She swallows thickly, catching her breath as she looks at him.

"Has there been anyone else?"

His response is soft; it makes her shiver. "Not even close."

She nods, releasing a long sigh she didn't realize she was holding. She crashes into him, kissing him, and he lifts her into his arms again, bringing her upstairs while the dishes lay broken and cold on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnnnnnd that's the end of chapter nine! Definitely beginning to see those feelings rise between them. What do you think? Did Bell hook up with someone while she was gone? Will she tell him about Wells? Guess you'll have to find out in the next chapter!
> 
> Should be up within a week or two. Thank you and much love to those who read this and have been waiting for months for another chapter! I love you guys! xo


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll. This past week has been a good one. I've been so happy reading all of your reactions following my *dun dun dun* return last week. Thank you so much to all of those who have read the last chapter, and to those who have been waiting to read it for a year. I truly am thankful.
> 
> Now onto what you guys are here for. I'm more than excited to share this next chapter with you. It's a lot more emotional, and a lot of questions will be answered before a lot more questions will be asked. Can't wait to read your reactions. Enjoy!

i.

In the morning, she realizes things with Bellamy are different.

And she tries to pretend that it doesn't change things.

It's almost irrational, she realizes, believing that she could dismiss it, but she tries not to notice his lingering, the brush of his hand when he leaves a conversation; tries not to notice the warmth in her chest when he enters a room he was previously absent from.

Things had altered. she felt it, knows that he had as well, but they were stubborn people. Change wasn't possible when they refused to even recognize it.

They continued like this for days, for _weeks_ ; oblivious to the growing comfort within them. It almost became a routine, falling asleep tangled between limbs and waking up to repeat the night's cycle, and she tells herself that it's normal, that it makes sense.

Tells herself that _nothing's fucking changed_.

That she doesn't, nor does she accept the possibility, of having feelings for Bellamy Blake.

It's a rather simple concept to convince herself, and Clarke exhales deeply, ruffling her damp curls as she steps out of the shower.

It was the morning after midterms, and Bellamy had gotten drunk near a lakeside, collapsing on her bed before midnight.

She had completed hers four days before, finishing with her history exam while Bellamy continued to study for psychics. She had become unbearable, waiting for him, letting him study; last night had become a release of her cravings.

She enters her bedroom when it turns noon. Bellamy's body remains motionless between the sheets.

Clarke sighs. "Oh, Bell." She wraps the towel around her and walks towards the bed. "Now this is just getting embarrassing."

She kneels onto the mattress, the blanket becoming damp with the water that drips down her skin. She crawls towards him, dropping a kiss to his shoulder, the muscles in his back. He grumbles an inaudible sound.

"Hey, Einstein." Clarke brushes the hair from his forehead. "I know you're tired, but it's probably a good time to wake up now so we can start boning."

Bellamy exhales, pushing his face into the pillow.

"Come on," she mutters. She presses her lips together. "The house is on fire."

He doesn't move, not even a flinch.

"I'm having a heart attack."

 _Nothing_. She breathes heavily.

"Alright, Blake. I didn't want to pull this card, but if you don't wake up then I'm not going to be able to reward you for finishing your midterms. Such a shame, because Victoria Secret just started a sale on their lingerie collection and - "

There's a huff, and Bellamy opens his eyes. She squeals as his arms wrap around her waist, rolling her onto her back.

Clarke smiles and drops her head against the sheets. "It worked."

He nods. He seems tired, a little weary, but his grin still leaves her breathless.

"You can't tell me you're surprised."

"Not surprised. Relieved, mostly."

He raises an eyebrow. "Relieved?"

"Yeah. You drank a lot last night." She runs her fingers through the thickness of his hair. "I'm lucky you're not a corpse."

"That would have looked very bad on your part."

"I know. Waking up next to a dead guy. Definitely not on my bucket list."

"Definitely."

"It's a good thing I'm adorable," she says. "They would never suspect me."

Bellamy narrows his eyes. "Adorable? You tackled a girl at a house party once," he tells her. "You broke your fucking hand."

" _She_ broke my hand."

"Because _you_ punched her."

Clarke huffs. "Technicalities," she whispers. "It's all part of my charm."

He hums, agreeing, and presses his lips against hers.

Clarke whimpers, pulling away. "You taste like beer." She swallows thickly; senses something else. "And McDonald's."

"Probably."

"I hate beer," she mutters.

"Really?"

"Really, really."

"But you love McDonald's."

She shrugs her shoulders. "The beer overpowers it."

Bellamy stares at her. "Oh. That's unfortunate." He surges forward, kissing her again, quick, and she laughs into his mouth. "Guess you're going to have to start mclovin' it."

" _Bell_ ," she hisses. She shakes her head. "Such a horrible joke."

He chuckles, and - yeah, there's that warmth again, strong and burning inside her. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him against her, the scent of his aftertaste a minor sacrifice to the closeness of his body.

The moment is short. Raven enters the bedroom, eyes wide when she looks at them.

"Blake," she says. She doesn't blink, either oblivious or no longer affected by their intimacy. "You're alive."

Bellamy nods "So it would seem." He exhales, deep, pulling away as Clarke props herself onto her elbows. "Is there something really important you need? Or can we get back to it?"

Raven shakes her head. "Yup. Something important." She claps her hands together. "I've come to get your lazy asses up."

"It's Saturday," Clarke says.

"So?"

"So it's probably a good idea to leave us alone," Bellamy tells her. "And not disturb us for the next hour."

"Yeah, an hour is rational. Maybe two."

Raven raises an eyebrow. "Alright, if that's what you want." She sighs dramatically and steps into the hallway. "Guess I'll have to tell Wick to only make pancakes for the two of - "

Clarke's eyes widen. She pushes Bellamy onto his back, tangling herself between the sheets as she stumbles from the mattress. He laughs, and her smile only grows wider when he joins them in the kitchen moments later.

* * *

ii.

It's the best breakfast she's ever fucking had, because the pancakes are stuffed with chocolate chips, sauce nearly oozing from the batter, and Clarke finishes her third before Wick even sits down.

"Christ, Griffin," he curses. He points at the skin surrounding her mouth. "We're going to have to get you a fucking bib."

Bellamy laughs, wiping his thumb at the stain that scars her cheek. She leans into her chair as Raven reaches across the table for the jug of milk.

"As if that would control her." She glances around the kitchen. "Where the fuck is O?"

"Lincoln brought her back to his place pretty early. I think she was as drunk as her brother."

Raven narrows her eyes. "Impossible."

"Not impossible," Clarke says. "Maybe it's got something to do with their DNA. Both of them were smashed."

"I wasn't smashed," Bellamy tells her.

"Sorry. Not smashed." She takes another bite of the pancake. "Just completely wasted."

Raven nods. "Yeah. I'd say completely wasted is reasonable."

He huffs, and he and Wick leave in the afternoon, again departing with a brush on her shoulder and a promise to see her later. She nods, feels that warmth again; and she turns from Raven before she's able to notice the blush that fills her cheeks.

That night, she snuggles into Raven and Octavia on her mattress. The second season of Fuller House plays on the TV.

There's a muffled sound, and Octavia snores into her pillow. She's been throwing up all morning, head hanging over the toliet of Raven's bathroom, and she pulls the covers over her, turning to Clarke.

"Should we dip her hand in water?"

"So she can piss in my bed?" She shakes her head. "God, no."

Raven sighs. "You were more fun last night."

"That's because you kept buying tequila, and you know what happens when I drink tequila."

"Of course I know what happens," she says, "why do you think I kept buying it?"

"Because you wanted me to die."

"Because I wanted you to have fun."

"I was having fun," she tells her. "But I'm pretty sure no one had as fun as Bellamy."

"Honestly, I don't even think Bellamy knew how much fun he was having."

Clarke laughs. "Yeah. He was pretty drunk."

It's quiet for a moment, the room silent except for Octavia's shallow breathing and the sound of Uncle Jesse's banter. Raven exhales, shifting on the mattress. She swallows thickly.

"Okay. I have a question."

"Shoot."

"You have to answer truthfully," she says. "I promise I won't hit you this time."

Clarke nods, raising an eyebrow. Raven presses her lips together.

"Do you like him?"

Her gaze narrows. "Like who?"

"Oh, you know. That guy you've been sleeping with."

Clarke stares at her. Her cheeks feel warm.

"Bellamy?"

Raven nods.

"It's . . . " She shakes her head. "Bellamy."

"I know."

" _Bellamy_."

"Remember when I said I wouldn't hit you? You're making it really hard to keep that promise."

Clarke sighs. She realizes it's pointless, trying to hide the warmth in her chest and blush in her cheeks, but she does it anyway. Does it because she's an idiot, and confused, and doesn't understand why she even feels the way she does.

She shifts amongst the sheets to face her. Raven's eyes are bright in the darkness of her room.

"What makes you ask?"

"I don't know. You seem happy. Happier when you're with him."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It does." John Stamos begins to play the guitar in the background. "You've been sleeping over. He's been sleeping over." Her gaze hardens, becomes serious. "Something's changed."

"Nothing's changed."

"Clarke."

She smiles tightly. "We're friends, Reyes."

"I know. But - "

"Raven," she mutters. Her heart has begun to race in the rhythm that terrifies her. "Just drop it, okay?" She laughs, a little breathless, and swallows thickly. "I don't like him like that."

She nods. "Okay," she whispers. Her eyes seem guarded, a little confused. _She's_ confused. "If that's how you feel."

"That's how I feel."

Raven breathes deeply, and Clarke offers her a grin, forceful; one that stretches harshly across her lips. She bows her head and snuggles closer to her, watching as the closing credits roll down the screen.

"I believe you," she says.

Octavia's breathing slows beside them. Clarke closes her eyes, wishes she didn't feel anything at all.

* * *

iii.

On Thursday, his rugby game is called off after Wick tackles down a student from Virginia Tech, the field becoming damp with rain as thunder erupts from the darkened clouds above them.

The coach calls for a rematch, and Bellamy finds Clarke in the crowd. He brushes a wet curl from her forehead when he sees her.

"Hey." Her voice is loud amongst the storm. "Please tell me you brought your car."

He shakes his head. "Nope."

"Bellamy - "

He wraps his hand around her elbow. "Come on," he says, and he tugs her away from the benches. "Looks like we have to make a run for it. I'll even make it interesting. First one there chooses what we watch tonight on Netflix."

"You're on."

He laughs, and she pushes at his chest as she sprints across the field. The storm has gotten worse, rain pounding against them as they stumble across the grass, and she grins when she reaches his dorm, clothes dripping with water when they enter his bedroom.

"Jesus," he mutters. He closes the door behind them. "Leave it to Virginia Tech to summon a storm when we're about to win."

"Do you think they did a rain dance?"

"Definitely."

Clarke laughs and reaches for the light switch on his wall. She frowns when the room remains dark.

"I think the power's out," she tells him.

"I figured." He smirks at her, the one that makes her cheeks flush. "I guess we can't watch Fuller House tonight. That's a shame. I was really starting to get into it."

Clarke narrows her gaze. "You're such a liar," she says, but she's smiling; the word holds no malice. She rubs her hands against her arms. "I'm guessing your heat is out, too."

"Yeah. You cold?"

She nods. "A little."

Bellamy walks towards the dresser in the corner of his room. "Take off your clothes. You can put them on the chair." He opens the drawers, hands rumbling through the piles. He pulls out a blue shirt. "This'll work."

He turns to her, offering her the material. She peels off her damp blouse.

"How pissed do you think Wick is right now?" she asks as she hands it to him.

"After tackling down Underwood, the biggest guy in the league, and not having anything come of it?" He shrugs and places her clothes on the desk. "I don't think he's pissed. I'd say heartbroken."

Clarke laughs. She takes the shirt from his palm and stretches it over her head, rolling it over her body; it's loose on her, length cutting off above her knees, and she glances at him.

His gaze is dark, depths heavy with affection. There's a warmth growing inside her despite the cold.

She bites on her bottom lip. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"Yeah," he whispers. He clears his throat. "You look nice."

Clarke nods. It's silent for a moment, thunder continuing to growl around them, and she smiles at him; small, genuine. His laughter is warm when she picks up the ends of her shirt, twirling in front of him.

"Is this what you meant when you said Victoria's Secret was having a sale?"

"It is," she says. "Not disappointed, are you?"

"No," he murmurs, and he steps towards her. "I'm definitely not disappointed."

Her smile widens, and he reaches for her; grips the material of her shirt and pulls her flush against him. She melts into him when he kisses her, mouth solid and strong, and he wraps his arms around her, folding her into his embrace.

She breathes his name, shivers at his closeness.

He holds her intently, hands moving to her hips to guide her backward. She stumbles with him, fingers sliding through the thickness of his hair, pulling him close when he presses her into the bookshelf.

There's a clatter, and she groans at the strain of something hard against her back.

"Bellamy," she laughs. She pulls away from him and reaches for the roughness behind her. "Who even has books anymore?"

He whispers the words into her skin. "Excuse me for trying to keep society from going digital."

"Right. You're a hero." She clutches the hardcover, holding in front of her. Her eyes widen when she notices the blue and gold strips. "Oh, my God."

"What?"

"Oh, my _God_."

Bellamy pulls away from her. His eyes are narrow, calculative, and he glances at the text in her hold. There's a tug at his swollen lips when he reads the title; their high school yearbook.

"I forgot I had this thing," he tells her, and his voice is full of wonder.

"I'm glad you do. Don't you remember how much fun we had?" She opens it, turning the pages. Her eyes scan the class photos. "We were so little."

Bellamy huffs. "I wasn't little."

"Yes. You were." She gestures to his photo, taken when he was in grade eleven. His freckles are bright amongst the black and white background. "Look at you, Bell. Little. Adorable, even."

"Yeah, yeah." He takes the book from her grasp and steps away from her. "Now if I recall, you and O were in grade nine that year."

"Mrs. Dufferin's class, yeah."

Bellamy nods. He sits at the edge of his mattress and opens the book in his lap. Clarke lowers herself beside him, peering over his shoulder as he flips through the pages.

He finds her picture. "There you are," he whispers. He runs his finger over the photo. "I remember that braid. You wore your hair like that every day." He turns to her, eyes curious. "Why'd you stop?"

She shakes her head. "It's stupid."

"Tell me."

Clarke sighs. "Okay." She presses her lips together. "In grade ten, after I met Finn, he told me the braid made me look like Bette Midler. I didn't even know what that meant, so he was nice enough to explain that Bette Midler wasn't pretty."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," she confirms.

Bellamy shakes his head. "Finn's an idiot."

"Yeah."

"And blind, clearly." He glances at her. His eyes seem to rake over her; searching her face, taking it in. She becomes warm beneath his glare. "I liked that braid. You looked beautiful."

Clarke looks at him. She recognizes the strength of her gaze in the reflection of his own, and she leans forward, touching his cheek as she presses her lips against his; short and pure before pulling away.

Her palm remains on his skin, and he opens his eyes, glare searching hers.

His eyes soften; fills with emotion. "What is it?"

Clarke shakes her head. "Nothing. I just - " She breathes deeply, longingly. Her fingers trace a pattern on his jaw. "Every time I think I've got you figured out . . . "

Bellamy stares at her. His expression is gentle, eyebrows arching at the wonder behind her words. It makes her shiver, the bewilderment, the _awe_ ; and she runs her fingers through his curls.

"You're a good guy," she tells him. She needs him to know. "You're one of the best."

His lips part slightly. "Clarke."

"You _care_ , Bellamy - about so much. About so many people." She laughs, a little breathless. Her eyes have become moist. "You try not to show it, but I see it. I can see that it scares you."

"What scares me?"

"The caring. The relying. Having someone need you as much you need them."

Bellamy shakes his head. "Clarke," he murmurs. The name is filled with emotion, it sounds rough on his lips. "Why would that scare me?"

"Because," she whispers, "it scares me, too."

He releases a breath, one that is long, laced with meaning. It makes her tremble; allows her to become vulnerable under his gaze, and she exhales when he reaches for her, cradling her face between his hands.

He kisses her, and it's soft; curls at her nerves and fires the warmth in her core.

The room remains dark amongst the storm as he lowers her onto the mattress, stretching her onto the sheets and pressing her into the cushion. The rain drowns out her whimper, and he hovers above her, kissing her soft and with yearning.

It's slow as it builds, gentle. It makes her raw with the need for him. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him in, skin warm and damp. Bellamy rolls his body forcefully into hers.

Clarke moans into his mouth, and he pulls away from her, taking her face in his hands.

"Bellamy."

"You don't have to be," he whispers.

She's breathless. "What?"

"Scared," he tells her. He caresses the stray hair from her cheeks. "You don't have to be scared."

She nods, touching her fingers to his lips. His eyes narrow; a flicker, and he leans forward. This kiss is filling, consumes her yet leaves her craving for there to be more, more of him and his touch, of his warmth.

He pulls up the shirt, bundles it at her stomach, and adjusts himself between her legs.

Her name is a breath on his lips when he enters her.

It isn't like before, when he begins to thrust, where there was want; because now there's need. There's patience. As if they have the entire night to absorb each other, to learn what they've yet to discover.

He moves inside of her slowly, passionately, holding their intertwined hands above her head as his pace becomes rougher. When he releases, he groans, whispering into her skin. She clutches onto him, keeping him close as her body becomes liquid beneath him.

They stay like that for a moment, a silence resting amongst them as they regain their strength. She traces patterns on his back, fingers warm on his skin. Another minute passes before he tries to pull away.

Clarke tightens her arms around his neck.

"Don't," she whispers. "Just - " she exhales deeply, "stay for a moment."

Bellamy nods, a little breathless, and kisses her nose, then her cheek, burying his face against her neck and breathing her name. She closes her eyes and holds him close, because she can.

Because she wants to.

* * *

iv.

The storm begins to slow throughout the night, the rain becoming a soft pattern against the glass of his window. It's dark within his dorm, silent, and Clarke shifts on the mattress, tracing her finger along the muscles in his arm.

Bellamy gazes at her, content. He breathes longingly into his pillow.

She glances at him. "Tell me something," she whispers.

He nods. "Okay." His eyes search her face. "Like what?"

"Something no one else knows."

Bellamy hums. His freckles remain visible amongst the night, and she reaches forward, brushing the markings that outline his skin. He turns his head to press his lips against her open palm.

There's a beat, and he exhales deeply.

"I hate school," he tells her.

She narrows her gaze. "Really?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, and she thinks of how hard he works, his enjoyment when he discusses his lectures. "The material is interesting, but - I don't know. You know when you just feel like you should be somewhere else in your life?"

Clarke nods. "You will be."

"Maybe," he whispers. "What about you?"

She presses her cheek into the pillow. "I don't know," she admits. Her lips press firmly together. "To be honest, I don't think I ever really loved Finn."

He looks at her, patient. She continues.

"I think I loved _being_ with Finn. How easy and comfortable it was. But if that's what love is supposed to feel like, then I think people got it wrong. It's not that breathtaking."

Bellamy's eyes narrow. "Should it be?"

"Yeah," she says. "I think so. I mean, I'm pretty sure my parents had it." She smiles a little, one that doesn't reach her eyes. "I don't think my mom has ever looked at anyone the way she looked at my dad."

"She must miss him," he murmurs.

"She does. But I think in order to stop missing him so much, she had to move on. And I don't hate her for it - I'm glad she's with Marcus."

Bellamy nods. She's told him parts about her trip to Boston, about her mother and her boyfriend; how odd it had felt seeing them. He had listened, even offered her words of comfort, and she shifts closer to him on the mattress, needing it again.

He reaches for her, pulling her against his chest. He brushes a curl from her forehead.

"What about you?" he asks. She hums into his skin. "Do you still think about him?"

"All the time."

His words are low, a whisper. "He was a good guy."

"Yeah," she says. Her grin is watery, and she exhales when he caresses her cheek. "Do you still think about your mom?"

He nods. "Octavia reminds me of her."

"I can see that. Your mom was awesome."

Bellamy smiles. "She was, yeah." His expression grows soft, a little sad. She presses a soft kiss to his neck. "Sometimes I think she would be disappointed in me, though. In the way that I've acted."

"She wouldn't."

"We don't know that," he says. "It's hard to live up to someone's expectations when that person is dead."

Clarke shakes her head. She props herself onto her elbows, leaning over him and tilting his jaw towards her. Her hand expands over his cheek; she can still see the warmth in his gaze.

"You do. You live up to them," she tells him. The rain hushes around them. "You're good, Bell. That's all she'll ever want, for you to be good."

Bellamy stares at her. There's a moment, one that is silent, and he tugs her into him, cradling the back of her head and kissing her with a different fire than before. She whimpers, the force of it unexpected, and allows him to pull her on top of him.

She settles into his lap and drops the sheets from their bodies. And then there's that warmth again, growing and growing between them, and she knows now that she can't ignore it, that she recognizes it.

She understands now that everything has changed.

* * *

v.

She's wrapped around him when she wakes up, the sun warm on her open back as she kisses him. It's a content moment, and he protests when she untangles herself from the sheets, leaving in her damp clothes and a promise to see him that night.

She had a paper to write, and she wanted to finish it before he came over.

She goes to the library in the afternoon, avoiding the house and the questions she knew Octavia and Raven were waiting to ask her. She had slept over again, and even though it wasn't unusual for her, it would be for them. They would have noticed the blush in her cheeks.

The library is empty when she enters, _almost_ empty; she's standing in one of the aisles when she see's her.

"Clarke?"

She turns. Her eyes narrow as Gina smiles at her delicately.

"Gina," she says. "Hey."

Her smile widens. "Long time no see, huh?" She steps forward and wraps her arms around her shoulders. Clarke pats the small of her back. "How was your break? I haven't seen you since you've been back."

"It was good, thanks. I heard you stayed back."

"I did, yeah." She pulls away, her smile still so God damn dazzling. "Octavia convinced me."

Clarke raises an eyebrow. "She did?"

"Totally. She told me that since you were gone, she couldn't bear to have me leave, too." She laughs, the sound a literal fucking _giggle._ It nearly makes her cringe. "It was adorable."

Clarke nods. "That sounds like her," she says. "She's all about the guilt card. It can be very persuasive."

"Tell me about it. Her speech was emotional."

"They usually are."

Gina huffs, placing her hands on her hips. "I believe it," she says. There's a silence, only for a moment. She hesitates before pressing her lips together. "So. How's Bellamy?"

Clarke narrows her eyes. The smile she's giving is forced, stretched across her lips; it makes her nervous.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "He's fine."

"That's good to hear. I've been so busy, haven't seen him since we went to the bar."

Clarke's glare hardens. "The bar?"

"Yeah. We went on New Year's Eve." Her grin lowers then, becomes serious. She looks as confused as Clarke does. "I remember him calling you once we were leaving."

"I must have forgotten."

Gina shrugs. "I mean, I wouldn't blame you. It was New Year's Eve." She laughs again, this one brighter than the other. "The only reason I convinced him to ditch his party is because of the free coverage."

"You can't say no to that."

"That's what I told him. Parties seem too cliche, you know? You can't really talk to people there."

"Yeah." Clarke's head begins to fill with dangerous thoughts. "Must have been fun."

"It was. We had a really good time."

Clarke smiles tightly. "I'm glad," she whispers. Her voice is low, it feels like her throat is closing. She steps away from her. "Well, I would love to stay and chat but I have to go. I'll let him know that you said hi."

"That'd be great," she tells her. "Thank you. I'll see you around."

Clarke nods, turning from her. She doesn't feel the lump grow inside her until she leaves the building, leaves the campus, the tears burning the back of her eyes as she enters her room and buries her face into the pillow.

* * *

vi.

For the second time that week, she understands that everything has changed.

And it hurts her more than the first realization had.

It's been two days since she encountered Gina in the library, has been two nights without _him_ , Bellamy; two nights without his touch, his voice, without the warmth that had grown deep within her.

It's been two days, and the warmth has since been damaged. Has been torn and replaced by a coldness, dark and spreading inside her.

It's a Sunday when she awakens to knocking, loud and persistent on her window.

Clarke exhales. She rolls across her mattress, breathing labored as she waits for it stop - but it doesn't, it continues, each tap stronger than the previous one. She moves from her bed and steps towards the window, unlocking the bolt.

Bellamy crawls through, his cheeks red from the cold.

"Bellamy," she hisses. She closes the window, turning to him as he stands in the center of her room. "Are you insane?"

He shakes his head. "I need to talk to you."

"And you had to wake me up in the middle of the night to do it?" She scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. His glare is burning in the darkness. "You really are something else, Blake. I - "

"You've been avoiding me," he says. She watches as he swallows thickly. "Why?"

Clarke glares at him. "You should leave."

"Clarke - "

She shakes her head. "What do you want, Bellamy? You don't need to know what I'm doing every day."

"It's not about that," he tells her.

"Right."

Bellamy closes his eyes. "It's not - " He rubs his palm against his forehead. There's a desperation in his voice that she's never heard before. "It's _you_ , Clarke." His glare finds her, depths burning. "You can't even fucking look at me."

"I can fucking look at you, moron."

"Not like that." He shakes his head. She can sense his unraveling. "Not like before."

Clarke stares at him, can sense the burning that rises in the back of her eyes, the one warning her of pain. She blinks, turning away from him. His gaze is pleading when he steps towards her. It torments her.

"Clarke," he whispers, "tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

"Bullshit."

"What do you mean bullshit?"

He shakes his head. "We were fine," he tells her. His voice has become stronger, angrier. Her hands curl into fists at her sides. "Or at least I thought we were. And then you haven't been answering my texts or - "

"What happened when I was gone?"

He glances at her. The sorrow in her voice is deafening in the darkness of her room, and it changes him. The frustration in his expression eases, lines in his forehead softening.

"What are you talking about?"

"Christmas break," she tells him. "What happened?"

"I already told you – "

"Bell." Her voice trembles; she feels small. "Don't."

It's quiet. His eyes have become impossibly dark, almost unreadable. He swallows thickly.

"It was nothing," he says.

"Then why can't you say it?"

He glares at her, depths burning with an emotion as powerful as the dread that spreads throughout her body. His jaw clenches, becomes rigid, and his voice is clipped when he finally answers.

"Gina kissed me," he says.

And yeah, the pulse that she feels, the one that's loud and painful inside of her; that's her heart breaking.

Clarke nods. "Did you kiss her back?"

He doesn't say anything; becomes silent, but the pulse becomes louder, more destructive within her, it pounds at the walls inside her chest and makes her forget how to breathe. She closes her eyes. There's a sudden urge to cry.

"You lied to me."

He shakes his head. "Clarke," he whispers. His tone is wet with anguish. "I'm sorry, okay? It didn't mean anything." He steps towards her; she knows he wants to reach for her. "It didn't matter."

"It does. If you want to be with her than be with her."

"Clarke - "

She opens her eyes. "I kissed someone, too."

Bellamy stares at her, and the way he's looking at her causes more torment than the pulse that's drowning her. His expression is painful, lines of frustration returning to his skin. She wraps her arms around her chest.

"It was over the break," she tells him. Her voice is detached from emotion, words low. They're filled with lies. "Remember, Wells?"

"Wells." He nods. "You kissed Wells."

"Yes."

He shakes his head. She watches him.

"Why?"

Clarke releases a long breath. "I wanted to," she murmurs. "Didn't you?"

His eyes waver, unfolding, and she recognizes the sadness in them. It's enough to break her, but it doesn't; she exhales deeply. She won't break now, not yet.

The hardness returns to her gaze. "That night after the highway, you asked me to tell you when I wanted to stop." She swallows thickly. Her fingers dig into the skin of her palms. "I do. Now. It's probably best."

His jaw clenches. "That's what you want?"

"It's what _we_ wanted, remember? Sex until the right person came along. That was the deal."

He shakes his head. "Deal"?

"Yeah. The deal. Nothing's changed."

"Right." His eyes have turned cold. "Nothing."

Clarke nods. Her voice breaks when she speaks again. "Great. So it's over, whatever this was." She feels the tears burn the back of her eyes. The pulse grows stronger. "But Gina's great. She'll be good to you."

His mouth has become a firm line. "I guess I should call her, then."

"Yeah," she whispers. "I guess you should."

Bellamy breathes harshly, his lips stretched harshly across his cheeks. "Right," he mutters, and he glances at her for a moment. She recognizes the replacement of the sadness in his eyes, see's the animosity, the way he used to look at her before.

She exhales, the expression leaving her breathless. Octavia and Raven are leaning against the door when he opens it.

"Bell," Octavia starts. "Are you - "

He doesn't say anything, refuses to even look at her. He walks past them, footsteps heavy as he disappears into the hallway. Raven turns to her, closing the bedroom door behind them.

"We heard yelling," she explains. "You okay?"

Clarke shakes her head. The pulse has burst, erupting inside her and tearing at her heart, her chest. She releases a sob, one that she's been holding in for the past days, and they rush towards her, pulling her close.

"It wasn't supposed to hurt this much," she says.

But it did. It _does_. Hurts more than she wants it to.

Bellamy asks out Gina on Monday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I KNOW - you hate me right? At least I warned you. That makes it better, doesn't it? DOESN'T IT?
> 
> So yeah. That happened. You really didn't expect things to go smoothly when they're both emotionally constipated, did you? I mean this is Bellamy and Clarke we're talking about here (aka the couple who waited more than six years for each other), so this journey obviously won't be easy.
> 
> There are either two or three chapters left, I haven't decided yet, but I just want to thank you all again for continuing to read it.
> 
> Much love. Next chapter will be up a little bit later, probably within the next two weeks. Xo. Can't wait to see what you guys think!


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I apologize that it took me a bit longer than expected to post this chapter, though I want to thank all of you for continuing to check up on me and encouraging me to finish this story. Things currently happening in my life aren't exactly good ones, and to read all of your comments have truly made me feel better.
> 
> Anyways, you guys probably want me to shut up so you can finally read this chapter. I hope it makes up for the wait! You might laugh, maybe cry, get frustrated, but I hope you'll still enjoy it! Can't wait to read your thoughts at the end. Get ready, get set, go!

  **February**

i.

The first thing he notices is her skin.

The significant yet haunting contrast of it; how it feels imperfect and incomplete against him when he touches it, kisses it, runs his hands along her back.

Her body is longer than the one that he longs for, the one that he pretends he doesn't miss. It's delicate, and Bellamy groans slightly when she wraps her legs around his waist, the pressure of her instantly unsettling.

"Bell," Gina whispers, and her voice is delicate, too.

They've been seeing each other for weeks since the morning he asked her for coffee; a plan that was initially executed to prove something to himself and to Clarke. To prove that he doesn't care - never did, that the act of being with someone else didn't bother him.

But then Gina was gentle towards him, and Clarke became distant. She became someone who didn't try anymore, discouraging him to try, too. He convinces himself it's better this way - happier, even.

That he doesn't think of her in the month since they called it off.

That he doesn't think of her at all.

" _Fuck_ ," he murmurs. The thought of Clarke guilts him, and he buries his head against Gina's neck, pushing into her. He closes his eyes when he feels her body tense. "Come on."

Her thighs tighten around his waist as he continues to thrust, and he grows fierce with the need to forget his turmoil and the person who caused it. To focus on the brown hair between his fingers without seeing blonde, to look into the brown eyes below him instead of the blue.

Gina is ice when Clarke was built with fire; calm when Clarke was all fury.

The inner torture brings him over the edge, and she moans when she releases, a sound strained from his ears. Her arms quiver around his shoulders and he follows shortly after, stilling inside of her.

"Holy shit," she whispers. It's dark in her room; he can't see her expression. "That was . . . "

 _Different_ , he thinks, and he hates himself for it.

Bellamy pulls out of her, and the memories return; all blonde and blue and pale skin. He sighs deeply and rolls off her onto the mattress, away from her and damned contrast of her skin against his.

He sits up on the bed, closing his eyes. The fire of Clarke lingers along his fingers, and he drops his head, frustrated with the inability to remove it.

Gina's voice is small beside him. "Hey," she murmurs, and she raises herself beside him, kissing his shoulder, "you okay?"

"Yeah." He opens his eyes. " _Yeah_. Sorry, I - " He hesitates, clearing his throat. "I should probably get going . . . early history lecture tomorrow."

It becomes quiet in her room, and he tenses for the consequences of it. He expects yelling and an accusation of using her, which he wouldn't even be able to defend himself against. He expects her to tell him to leave and never return.

It surprises him even more, when Gina takes his face between her hands, pulling his lips towards hers. She kisses him, stronger than before, and the lingering fire of Clarke begins to fade.

Gina pulls away, resting her forehead against his.

"You like to run after," she whispers against his lips. "Stay tonight."

Bellamy stares at her. He has yet to stay the night since they've begun seeing each other - it seems too much like what someone would do if they wanted to move on. Which he does, and he likes her enough to try. Likes her enough to start with her after ending with someone else.

His next words feel different again, like progress.

"Okay," he tells her, and the grin he gives her is genuine. "I'll stay."

* * *

ii.

The first thing she notices is his eyes.

How they harden when they see her, the warm depths that used to soothe her turning angry and firm within her presence. She knows that she may be returning the hard expression, that she doesn't look at him the same way anymore either, but it's more painful receiving it.

A painful confirmation that it's over, indeed, when it didn't have to be.

They're only civil towards each other for his sister, for Wick and Raven, and she pretends that it doesn't bother her when he comes with them to the bar, or when he sneaks his hands beneath the table, fingers searching for Gina.

Or when she hears Gina's name or voice, convincing herself that she isn't bothered by her in particular.

Because Gina is gentle, and now everything is for  _Gentle Fucking Gina_. She can't even blame him; she did tell him to be with her - but the decision was so fucking easy for him. He wanted her, and now he had her, and they are so fucking happy about it.

And so is Clarke. She's totally, completely, happily happy they're happy.

Abso-fucking-lutely.

"Hey." The voice is rough, intimidating, and she tilts her head, glancing at the man in the stool beside her.  _Sterling_ , she thinks his name is. "Did you even hear what I was saying?"

Clarke blinks. Her fingers tighten around the glass of vodka cranberry in front of her, twirling the straw as she glances at him.

She doesn't recall what he was saying, something about engineering, or what she even asked in the God damn first place, so she just puffs out her lips; a class distraction from bad behaviour.

"Sorry," she says. Her words are only slightly slurred. "Got distracted thinking."

Sterling glances at her mouth.  _Cha-ching._  "About anything interesting?"

"No. It's kind of sad, actually." She exhales deeply and drinks from her straw. "I was with someone recently - or I was kind of with someone, I guess." Sterling seems confused, and she clarifies. "It wasn't exclusive."

"I see. Seems like a sad deal."

Clarke shrugs her shoulders. "I'm fine with it."

"I meant for him," Sterling tells her, and there's a smile rounding his cheeks. "That's a sad deal for him."

Her eyes widen, and she returns the grin. It's silent for a moment, the bar eerily empty for a Tuesday night, and he leans forward in his chair, his arm touching hers on the counter.

There's a certain determination in his eyes, the heat in his glare something she hasn't felt in weeks.

"So," he begins, "this non-exclusive thing. That's something you do?"

Clarke's smile widens as the warmth continues to spread. "When the guy is cute," she says. Her eyes travel his blonde hair, the toned muscle of his arms. Yeah, she decides, he's definitely cute. "And pays for my drinks."

Sterling chuckles. He looks at her a moment, suddenly pulling a wallet from his jeans and placing a twenty dollar bill on the counter, sliding it towards her. Atop it is a note, his writing scribbled on one side.

Clarke glances down at it: his address.

"Well, considering I quality for your terms," his eyes rake over her, and he whistles lowly to himself, "and you definitely qualify for mine. Come over if you're down to do something non-exclusive again."

He lifts himself from the stool, eyeing her steadily as he walks away, and for once she remembers the warmth; how it felt and how it felt to lose it, so she puts the note into her pocket, hopeful to feel it again.

* * *

iii.

She stumbles into the kitchen past midnight, an early arrival since the bartender refused to give her another vodka cran. Instead, he gave her water, telling her to leave before she committed yet another criminal offense in his bar, and she shuts the door behind her, dropping her keys onto the floor in the process.

"Fuck," Clarke huffs. She bends forward, reaching for it. " _Fucking fucker_."

She loops the chain onto her finger, holding onto the wall as she stretches herself upwards. The lights turn on, surrounding her with brightness, and she shields herself from the instant flash of fluorescence.

Octavia and Raven sit at the kitchen table, hands folded atop the surface as they stare at her from across the room.

Clarke squints, her vision blurring. "What the hell is this?" She places her keys onto the counter, shoving her coat from her shoulders. "Did I miss another sorority meeting? I already told them I voted yes for a house cat."

Octavia shakes her head. "Clarke," she whispers. The anger in her glare is an infamous Blake quality. "Where were you?"

"At the bar, obviously." Raven nods towards her. "She can barely stand."

Clarke stubbornly stomps her feet on the floor. "I am standing."

" _Barely_ , I said."

"Both of you shut up," Octavia hisses, and Raven huffs loudly, leaning into her chair. The disappointment in Octavia's eyes only grows. "This is getting stupid. You go to the bar everybody."

Clarke shrugs. "I had a couple drinks. What's the big deal?"

"That you had a couple drinks yesterday, and the day before." Octavia exhales deeply, pressing her lips together. The next few words are temporarily stuck in her throat. "You've had a couple drinks basically every day since - "

Clarke closes her eyes. "Octavia," she whispers. She hates hearing his fucking name. "I'm fine. Okay?"

"You're clearly not."

" _Octavia_."

"O. Leave it." Raven presses her lips together, rising from her chair. She walks towards her, brown eyes calm as she stands before her, placing her hands on her shoulders. "I get what you're doing, okay? Breakups are tough. But this isn't the way to deal with them."

Clarke swallows thickly. "It wasn't a breakup."

"Damn it, Griffin," she whispers, tightening her fingers on her shirt, "quit lying to yourself. However you want to treat it, it was a relationship." She smiles gently, sadly. "And now it's a breakup. You're allowed to be sad."

She stares at her, and the realization is an unbearable pain. That night, the night he left, she told them it wasn't meant to mean anything, that she wasn't supposed to be sad when it ended. But she was. She's completely and horribly hurt.

She could pretend to everybody else, but not to Raven.

"Reyes." Her voice is soft; it's easier to hide her tremor. "I'm fine. I'll  _be fine_. Okay?"

Raven exhales deeply. She turns to Octavia, who shrugs her shoulder, glancing at the ceiling.

"Okay," she says, and Clarke forces a smile, dropping her purse onto the counter and stepping out of her embrace. She walks towards the staircase, keeping the note in her pocket safe from their view, safe from the risk of losing it's warmth.

* * *

iv.

He begins to notice more things about her, ones that he hadn't paid attention to before.

He begins to notice the crinkle in her eyes when she smiles, and the loose curls that grow frizzier around the frame of her face. He notices that her kindness isn't forced, or hostile, but is a genuine quality that only makes her softer, even when he's touching her.

She's different, and he begins to think that it's okay. That different could be good.

Near the end of February, he starts spending more nights at her dorm, discovering each other. He stays up until dawn talking to her, or pulling the sheet from her body, kissing spots he has yet to explore.

He doesn't notice the contrast of her skin anymore, or how different she sounds and feels. It's natural to him now, her body; and it terrifies and relieves him, having the feeling of Clarke lapse from his memory.

So he continues to go to her house. To spend the night, and then repeat it the following day. To repeat it until the thought of Clarke is only a thought, and no longer a fantasy he longs for.

Because Gina makes him try.

And for right now, that's enough to make him forget.

It's a Saturday, and Bellamy returns home before noon, his neck still pulsing from the morning spent between Gina's sheets. He exhales deeply and walks through the entrance hall, craving coffee to regain his fuel.

Miller is standing at the cupboard when he enters the kitchen, filling his mug with the coffee pot.

He nods at him in acknowledgment. "Good morning."

Bellamy clears his throat. "Morning."

He steps around him, reaching for the cupboard and grabbing a mug of his own. Miller hands him the pot of coffee, and he pours himself a cup, feeling his gaze on him.

"So," Miller begins, and Bellamy raises his eyebrows at the suspicion in his voice. "You've been missing the past three days. The guys are wondering where you've been, and Wick won't spill."

"Nowhere special. Just busy with school."

Miller smirks. "Good deflection."

Bellamy shakes his head, exhaling. "I'm not deflecting," he tells him. He tilts the mug towards his lips, drinking the heated liquid. "I've just been at Gina's. Nothing that I felt I really needed to share."

"You love sharing your kills. Two years ago the entire faculty was talking about that night you spent with Jenny Seawack."

Bellamy chuckles. "That was Wick."

"You slept with her, too."

"Yeah, well," he shrugs his shoulders, sighing, "people change, I guess."

Miller nods. It's quiet for a moment, comfortable, and he runs his hand through the mess of his curls, refilling his mug before he's even finished with the first cup. It was a long night.

"How's it going with her, anyway?" Miller asks him.

He thinks about it for a moment. "Good," he says. "Different. How about you?"

"Me?"

"Aren't you still seeing Monty?"

Miller grins. He looks at his feet, shaking his head. "So Clarke told you huh," he mumbles. The sudden sound of her name makes Bellamy wince. "Yeah. I figured she would."

"She's not known for keeping secrets."

"So I've learned." Miller smiles and glances at him. "But it's good with him. Easy." He shrugs his shoulder, leaning his elbows on the surface. "I like him."

Bellamy nods. "He's a good guy."

"Yeah." He exhales. "It's crazy though, you know? You don't expect anything when you start something new like that, and . . . " His smile widens, and he shrugs. "I don't know. Love is weird, huh? Unpredictable."

Bellamy swallows thickly. "Unpredictable . . . " He thinks of blonde hair and blue eyes. "Yeah. That's one way to put it."

Miller glances at him, eyes cautious, and he wonders what he sees. Wonders if he notices the inner strain. But he doesn't say anything, only steps away from him, patting him lightly on the shoulders.

Bellamy nods in farewell, closing his eyes.

And the invading images of blue make him shudder once more.

* * *

v.

She lies awake in her room, her hands tightening around her sheets as the moaning grows more fierce.

It's strong and hoarse; the sound extending throughout her room in quiet waves of passion. It's a desperation that Clarke hasn't heard in weeks, and she turns into the mattress, pressing her face into the pillow.

There's a sudden force against Clarke's wall, loud near her head, and she swears under her breath.

"Fuck," the curse is dynamic with anger. "Wick."

_God damn it, Raven._

Clarke groans, covering her ears with her hands as Raven's gasps echo throughout the room. It's strange, listening to the pleasure Wick brings her, how it bothers her in ways that it never used to. She hates it, hates herself for allowing things to change, and she clenches her fists at her sides, trying to envision the satisfaction that she used to constantly experience.

Tries to envision the lust and the need. Wants to feel it again. Her hands trail down her stomach as she remembers Bellamy, his solid arms around her, his -

Clarke gasps, opening her eyes. No.  _No_.

She's not  _that_  fucking pathetic.

She huffs, rolling from the mattress and forcing her desperate body to stand. She runs to the closet and searches for the note hidden in the pocket of her jeans. It's rumpled from the folds, and she straightens it on her desk, squinting at the words in the darkness.

_Sterling. 362 Main Street. Unit 4B._

She inserts the address into her phone and changes out of her clothes, finding the dress she wore to Octavia's birthday a couple weeks ago. It pushes up her boobs, fits around the right curves on her waist, and she smiles, spraying perfume across her body before exiting the room.

Time to get fucking laid.

The address isn't far from the sorority, and she decides to walk, partly because her year's resolution was to be more active and partly because she's too broke to afford a taxi.

And another part is - well, she's horny, okay? And walking makes it less likely to make out with an Uber driver.

The building is open when she walks into the lobby, wandering into the elevator and pushing the button for his floor. The transition between floors move fast, and she steps out at the abrupt ring, towards the door that reads 4B.

Clarke exhales deeply, knocking on the wood. And again. A third time.

(She's fucking horny, remember).

He answers while her fist is in the air for the fourth try, opening it in a pair of jeans and white, tightened shirt.

His eyes rake over her, a smile beginning to form on his lips.

"Hi," he says.

Clarke steps over the threshold. "Hi," she whispers, and she pulls him towards her.

He reacts almost instantly, arms encircling her body and dragging her inside of his apartment. His kisses are fierce and hot; just what she likes, what she  _needs_ , and she whimpers as he pushes her against the closed door, caging her with his presence.

_Holy shit. She's needed this._

She trails her hands under his shirt, peeling it from him and running her fingers along his exposed chest. It ripples beneath her, toned and muscular, and he helps her pull the dress straps from her shoulders.

It's overwhelming, the feeling of him, of his body against hers and her body against his. Her mind races with the memory of what she's feeling, and she remembers tanned skin and dark curls; whispering her name in her ear while he held her.

"Fuck, baby," Sterling murmurs, and it feels wrong. His voice is too light, arms not long enough, and -

His hands reach for her thighs, and it feels fucking wrong.

Clarke pushes him from her, his exposed chest heaving in the shadow of the hallway.

"What the hell?"

"I'm sorry." Her breathing comes in short, chest heaving as she presses into the door. "I can't do this."

Sterling raises an eyebrow. "Clarke. Don't be ridiculous." He steps towards her, dangerously close. "You came here, remember? It'll be fun."

He takes another step forward, pulling her into. She places her hands on his chest, pushing. He doesn't move.

"Stop," she hisses.

Sterling ignores her, pressing his lips into her neck. She curses, willing herself not to panic, pushing at him again, and again, once more until he stumbles away from her. He looks at her, growing angry, and she raises her hand and slaps her hand across his cheek.

"I said," she swallows thickly, raising her hand again, "no."

His expression turns hard. "You didn't say no before."

"Well, I changed my fucking mind."

Sterling laughs. "Fucking cunt." He takes the shirt from the floor, pulling it over his head. "Close the fucking door on your way out."

And she does, does it quickly, taking her coat from the floor and rushing out of the apartment. She bursts from the building, no trace of alcohol or any other distraction to prevent her from the truth, from the thoughts that she refuses to acknowledge.

That she has a severed heart. An absolutely painful, raw, aching shattered heart.

And she cries for the first time since the night that he broke it.

* * *

vi.

He sits on his porch in the hours before dawn, the darkness a peaceful contrast to the racing thoughts inside his head. He exhales deeply, drawing the cigarette from his mouth as the smoke leaves his lips, and the black night forms into a white fog around him.

It's almost a relief, the instant distraction. He doesn't see blue, or pale skin and blonde hair; only white. The purest shade to cleanse his enduring frustration.

The frustration of recognizing his turmoil for what it is: grief, heartbreak.

It's fucking pathetic, the way he misses her.

Miller's words about unpredictable emotions continuing to pulse inside his mind, making his thoughts race and race until he begins to see it again - the blue and pale skin and blonde hair.

Bellamy blinks, trying to rid his mind of the images. But he sees them again, in the distance.

Blue. Blonde. Pale.

He squints into the darkness at the shape growing clearer on the sidewalk, and he curses under his breath, recognizing it. Of course, he fucking recognizes it; he'd recognize her anywhere.

Her walk slows when she notices him, the night too dark for him to identify her expression. She stops before him, the sorority house in close proximity, and she can see the flash of her teeth as she regards him.

"Bell," Clarke whispers. Her voice is hoarse; he can't detect the emotion in it. "Hey."

He stares at her. "Hey."

It's silent for a moment, and he thinks she's about to leave, to only acknowledge him in passing, but then she exhales deeply, bright eyes turning hard as she gazes at him.

"You okay?"

He blinks at her. "What?"

Clarke points at the cigarette in his hand. "You're smoking," she says. "You quit months ago." She shrugs her shoulders, wrapping the coat tighter around her. "Must be a pretty good reason to be doing it again."

"Not really," he admits. "Just craving one."

" _Bellamy_."

She says his name cautiously, like before, when she would whisper to him in the dark quietness of her room. He shifts his gaze, staring at his feet to avoid the reignition of her fire.

"You can tell me, you know. If you want." She sighs heavily, voice growing small. "I still care."

So do I, he wants to say, but thinks better of it.

"It's alright, Clarke. Really." He drops the cigarette onto the porch steps, stepping his shoe onto it. He glances at her, noticing the tight wrap of her dress. "Coming back from somewhere?"

He doesn't see how she winces. "Yeah."

"Have any vodka crans?"

Her grin is small, but it's there. He smiles when he sees it.

"Not that kind of night," she says, and she steps towards him, lowering herself onto the porch. She's careful not to allow their limbs to touch. "It's peaceful out here. I've never noticed it before."

He nods. "Yeah." It's silent for a moment. He exhales deeply. "I've been out here quite a bit lately."

She glances at him. "Got a lot on your mind?"

"Not much from than the constant sight of seeing my sister walking out of Lincoln's room every morning."

Clarke laughs quietly. "I knew there was a reason you were stress-smoking."

"More than one," he says. His cheeks feel flushed suddenly, and he swallows, avoiding her gaze. "Do you ever get that feeling where you just wish . . . you could change things?"

"I've been feeling a lot of that lately," she whispers.

Yeah," he murmurs. "Me, too." He glances at her. "What do you want to change?"

"Being an idiot. You?"

He nods. "Being an idiot."

Clarke grins. "I don't think that's going to change anytime soon."

Bellamy chuckles. "No. Probably not." It's silent, the night becoming colder with the approaching morning, and he feels her shudder slightly beside him. "Listen, Clarke . . . I know things have been weird, but I just - "

She shakes her head. "It's okay, Bell. You don't have to say anything."

"I do."

"No," she says. There's an emotion in her eyes, a recent and raw one, and he craves to know what it's from. "There's nothing to explain. I mean, you're happy, right? With her?"

Bellamy clears his throat. "Sure," he murmurs. "Yeah."

"Okay. Then so am I."

He stares at her. The shades of blue and blonde restlessly overwhelm him.

He shakes his head. "Clarke."

The name is rough on his lips. She swallows thickly.

"What?"

A small grin escapes him, spreading across his expression. "Nothing," he says. "You're just . . . " He shrugs his shoulders, searching for the word. "Unpredictable."

Clarke blinks. "Oh." 

"That's not a bad thing."

She presses her lips together. "Okay." The pain behind her eyes has ceased slightly, slipping from her depths, and she exhales deeply. "Well . . . I should probably get going." She rises from the porch, looking at him. "I'll see you, yeah?"

Bellamy nods. "Yeah," he whispers. "I'll see you."

She smiles slightly, in acknowledgment, eyes lingering on him before she turns and walks towards the sorority. He watches her, remaining on the porch, clenching his fists as the fire returns to his hands once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for today folks! Wow, are these little lovebirds confused and in pain. Mwuahahha. Do you hate me yet? It's okay if you do, but know that it'll all be worth it in the end. This is a romantic comedy after all.
> 
> Anyways, next chapter (don't quote me on this) should be up by the end of the month. I'm saying two weeks. We'll see. In the meantime, feel free to read my other stories about Bellarke! See ya'll soon. XO!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay and that's the prologue! I know it doesn't feature Bellamy or any of the real story, but I just wanted to set you guys up for what to come next. What did you guys think? I hope you're as excited to read the rest as I am to write it! The next chapter should be up shortly, and trust me Bellamy will be in it, a whole lot of naked Bellamy.
> 
> Have a good week! Xoxo.


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